


The Robicheaux-Rocks Home for Wayward Boys

by Bronzeinferno, Geekyelvenchick, HuntressDaughter



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Aka Ding Dong Ditch, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, New Orleans, Romance, adoption au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 10:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13165062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bronzeinferno/pseuds/Bronzeinferno, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geekyelvenchick/pseuds/Geekyelvenchick, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HuntressDaughter/pseuds/HuntressDaughter
Summary: “I think we might get a dog,” Goodnight tells Sam because his problem is that the house he shares with Billy is too big and too empty. At least, he thinks that's his problem until Sam decides the solution is not a dog.Or, how Goodnight Robicheaux ends up living in a house he never thought he'd live in again with the husband he still questions how he landed and their three kids that Sam ding dong ditched onto their front porch.





	1. Where I Can Go to Save My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> After months of planning and plotting and a little writing, Bronzeinferno (Dutch), Geekyelvenchick (Brit), and I are excited to prove that our obsession is no longer just an obsession. Thank you to the discord for putting up with it for so long. 
> 
> So, welcome to Jackson Avenue, New Orleans, Louisiana, and we're pleased to introduce you to our retired Army vet, Dr. Ellison "Goodnight" Robicheaux; his chef husband, Billy Rocks; and their three hooplehead kids. Here is the project affectionately called Ding Dong Ditch.

**2020**

In the front parlor of the too-big house on Jackson Avenue stands an evergreen tree in proud display of a three-year-old’s handiwork. It was the tallest they could find or that would fit in the room, as Billy—however correct—likes to joke. The house glitters brightly with tinsel and lights, and over every surface drapes greenery, over the banisters, in the windowsills, greenery dotted with red and gold, the usual pale blue curtains exchanged for white and red. Goodnight’s mother has spent decades rolling in her grave at the things he’s done, but his holiday decorating is not one of them.

Taking in the scenery, Goodnight lingers on the stair landing. The house is quieter now than even a year ago, and while it makes him ache to think this could be the end of an era, he can’t help but to think on how kind the past years had been to him when he didn’t think he’d deserved it. He still can’t say he does, but he’s long since stopped pointing that out in case Fortuna realizes her mistake. Quiet laughter calls from the floor below him, breaking his trance, and he smiles as he follows the sound to the kitchen.

His smile grows at the sight inside. For all his aloofness, Billy is no match for their tiny houseguest, their granddaughter Rosie, who sits on the counter, surrounded by bowls and ingredients and successfully distracting Billy from cooking. Goodnight isn’t sure what he’s trying to make, but that’s only something else he’s learned not to question.

“What’s got you two tittering,” Goodnight asks as he steps to the counter. He kisses the top of her head as she expects, then wraps his arms around Billy’s waist, chin resting on his shoulder. Billy radiates calm, and Goodnight hopes to steal a bit of that.

“Papa said Daddy will get lost,” Rosie chirps, kicking her legs out slightly over the counter’s edge. She’s a doll in a frilly red and green dress, honeyed ringlets kept out of her face with a matching bow, but she’s a doll with Billy wrapped around her little finger. In his green sweater, he’s as festive as he would ever get until she came along and put a pair of antlers on his head and bells around his neck.

“Knowing your daddy, he’d do just that. We’ll just send your uncles out after him, save all your grandpa’s cooking for us, how’s that sound?”

Just as mischievous as her father, Rosie is giving them his same grin that suggests she’s willing to go along with that plan when the front door unlocks. All three perk up at the sound, and at Rosie’s outstretched arms, Billy helps her down, knowing she’s stubborn enough to break a leg getting down herself.

“Well, which one made it first,” Goodnight muses. His stomach churns, though he doesn’t know if it’s from nerves or excitement, and he watches Rosie dart from the room with a wish that he could do the same.

When something brushes against his hand, Goodnight turns to find Billy at his side, his face is lit up by one of his rare, wide smiles, nerves nowhere in sight, and it quells any that Goodnight might have had. He lets Billy weave their fingers together and follows him into the hall. Their boys are home.

**1988**

_“I’ve heard Gabriel singin’ and playing his horn, and lived to see the day both my babies were born.”_

Just past the corner of Ursuline and Chartres, still dressed in army fatigues, Ellison “Goodnight” Robicheaux waits under the awning of a restaurant. It’s raining in the Vieux Carré, leaving the streets slick and shining, the balconies and signs dripping, like the one above him that reads “Modern Parlor” in a simple gold script, and though the air is muggy with Southern summer heat, the faint wind from the river blows in relief. Rain is different here. It’s halfway cooling, always brief, and Goodnight appreciates the cleansing bursts. Reveling in the feeling, he leans back his head and brings a cigarette up to his lips for a long drag—nasty habit, one that would have his mama rolling in her grave, but he can’t help it. Things just feel…different, and different makes him anxious.

Trying to resist the urge to check his watch, he taps along with one hand to the beat of the band playing inside while the other knocks off the ash. Focus on the cigarette, focus on the music, focus on anything other than the time because that’ll just make him feel worse.

 _"Let me know where I can go to save my soul,”_ the band plays, _“New Orleans.”_

It’s been nearly eight years since he set foot in New Orleans; eight years, but nothing in the city has changed, the city of his youth, beautiful, unreplicated. Pedestrians step into the road without a thought of the coming cars, and he can see three musicians on the sidewalks of Chartres alone. He’s home.

And alone. Goodnight gives in to check his watch once more. 1300 hours, thirty minutes past when Sam agreed to meet him, and Sam is never late. Any longer and they’ll give away their table, if they haven’t already. Taking one final drag, he stubs out his cigarette on the wall behind him, tightens his jacket around his thin frame, and reaches for the door.

“Robicheaux—or Chisolm, I’m not sure,” he says to the hostess. She looks him over once before searching for the name on the list, and Goodnight swallows the rising fear in his throat. “The other is still coming. He should be here any moment.”

She mutters a ‘yessir,’ scratching off a name and giving him another critical glance while she grabs the menus, and Goodnight chews on his lip. He knows he looks out of place, but from the time it took to go between the airport to the city, there hadn’t been a chance to change, even if he’d had anything more fitting to put on; hell, he still had his duffel on him.

“Do you mind if we have a window table,” he can’t help but ask anyway, “I just…want to see the city.”

She nods, hardly meeting his eye, and Goodnight follows the girl through the restaurant. It’s a quaint place, dimly-lit by fairy lights along the ceiling, the walls a painted white brick and the floors old hardwood, polished and matching the furniture, upholstered with plush white cushions. A single candle burns in the center of each table in white, simply-twisted holders.

The hostess makes a show of watching him stow away his duffel before she sets the menu in front of him. He thumbs through it, scanning over lists of all sorts of foods—pasta, sauerbraten, yukhoe, paella—and Goodnight grins.

“—to drink sir,” says a voice to his side. Goodnight startles at the sound, more violently than anyone else may have, and hurries to compose himself. New Orleans has always been a melting pot of cultures, and the menu captures it perfectly. But what he wants most of all, though, is New Orleans.

“A tea, and what’s the most New Orleans thing you have?”

“Jambalaya?”

“Is it real—you know what, it’s fine. A tea and the jambalaya,” Goodnight says, running his hands over his face. He lets them drop with a deep breath. “Good Lord, I’d slap my mama for some real jambalaya.”

“Yes sir,” says the waitress, cutting her eyes to him nervously as she turns to leave.

Goodnight rubs his hands over his face once more and leans onto his elbows. He wants another cigarette. He wants a drink of something strong. He wants to call Sam and ask him what was so important that he couldn’t pick him up from the airport, or what was so important that he couldn’t even meet him here. Instead, he lets one hand fall to his lap, and he rests his chin in his palm as he turns his head to look out the window. _You’ll like it,_ Sam had said when he’d suggested this place, _it’s got all kind of things, and you’ll appreciate the decor. I’ll make the reservation._

He’ll have to thank Sam for the reservation next time he sees him.

* * *

Billy Rocks sits in his office with a spreadsheet in front of him. His three most personable waiters had asked off for the following Friday, and maybe he’s strict, but he isn’t heartless; he’ll give them the night off, as much of a pain as it is.

A knock on the door draws his attention away from the schedule for the briefest of seconds, long enough to see who it is. His newest hire, Jess, a second-year student at Southern, stands just outside, hesitantly awaiting his attention. “Mr. Rocks? There’s a man, and…sir, he’s crying.”

“Probably just a bad breakup,” Billy says, not looking up from his spreadsheet because he needs Alexandre to work Saturday’s lunch rush, and it would be unfair to make him close on Friday and open the next day. From the corner of his eye, he sees Jess remain standing just outside his door. He sighs and tries to remain patient since she is new and not used to this. “Is he disrupting anyone else?" 

“He came in alone, and people just seem to feel sorry for him. He took a bite of the jambalaya and started crying,” she explains, grabbing onto the doorframe.

Billy puts down his pencil. He isn't one to brag, but he knows his food is good; never, though, would he have thought it good enough to cry over. He hadn’t even cried when Modern Parlor had won three ‘Best’ spots in _Where Y’At—_ three spots that had come at a steep price of years of toil and effort, and three spots easily lost by one crying man scaring everyone off. He moves to follow Jess.

Sure enough, there's a man crying, but not in the way Billy expects. He's not a businessman wound too tightly that he can't blink correctly, or a kid who's been stood up on a date; he's tired and dusty in a uniform that drapes over his thin frame, with a hard face not particularly old in years but ancient in experience, and he's crying into a plate of jambalaya with an expression as though it has just told him all the secrets to the universe but they couldn’t help him anymore.

And he is beautiful.

Billy's stomach leaps as he halts mid-step. He doesn't know what to do now, doesn't know how to speak to him, or even how to approach, but it's true what Jess had said about the other customers staring.

Not that Billy can blame them, really.

* * *

When the waitress sets a plate in front of him, Goodnight admits that it looks better than he was expecting. He keeps his expectations low, though; it’s one thing for food to look pretty, but it’s another thing entirely to get the taste right.

It’s smoky and rich and reminds him so much of _before_ that suddenly his shoulders are shaking, and tears are slipping down his nose and onto the table. This is jambalaya, the kind that only a true New Orleans soul could make, not whatever he’d eaten that time in North Carolina. He presses a hand to his lips in a failed attempt to keep himself together. He has missed this food, this town, missed this life as much as he’d hated it, and it’s gone by without a passing glance to him. Years have passed, and he's seen so many things. Does he even still belong here?

Goodnight dips his head down to his plate, trying to hide his face from anyone who could be watching. He knows he’s making a scene, but he’s powerless to do anything about it besides ogle at this work of art in front of him.

“Sir?” There’s a hand on his back. He’s young with a hard-set face currently creased with worry, dressed in all black save for his gold tie, and in one seamless move, he shifts so that Goodnight doesn't have to turn around to see him, putting himself in full view—full, gorgeous view. In a soft, steady voice, he asks, “Sir, is everything all right?”

Goodnight swipes furiously at his eyes, fully aware he looks like a loon in front of a man who must have stepped out of a painting, all hard angles and delicate details. If Goodnight’s face wasn't already red, it was now. “Sorry, sorry, my apologies, I just…this is my first meal home.”

Though nothing else in his face changes, Goodnight swears understanding and pain flash through his eyes, dark and perfectly discerning. He nods just slightly. “I understand. How is it? We haven't poisoned you, have we?”

“Oh, Lord no,” Goodnight scoffs, feeling the corners of his lips twitch, and again he swears that the other man’s do the same. He ducks his head, afraid he would be caught staring at his lips. “Lord no. My friend—he was supposed to meet me here tonight—recommended this place, and I'll give him the credit he deserves. Make sure your manager knows this here is Cajun-approved jambalaya.”

“I'm relieved to hear it.” This time Goodnight knows his neck is red, and he licks his lips, averted eyes following the path the man’s veins trace over his hands. He would be the manager. A posh place like this deserves a manager just as posh, and it’s only fitting that Goodnight make a fool of himself in front of him. “My name is Billy. Let me know if I can do anything for you.”

Goodnight isn’t imagining it when he looks up to find the faintest friendly smile he’s ever seen on the man’s face, and he isn’t imagining it when he feels his lips pull back in one of his own either.

* * *

With a pounding heart and head, Billy turns away from the table, not quite understanding how he didn’t break down either. Part of him wants to sit down at the table too, but he doesn’t know if that’s the rational, benevolent manager part of him, or if it’s the part that wants to let his hand linger on the man’s shoulder.

Jess is waiting at the edge of the section, her hands wringing nervously, awaiting Billy’s attention. Mouth dry, Billy pauses in front of her and struggles for what to say. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, but the longer he’s silent, the more violently Jess wrings her hands.

“His check is on the house,” Billy says finally, not because the man needs it but because Billy wants to buy him dinner.

**1995**

“Rooms facing north get cold in the winter.”

“Harder to fix the heat,” Billy answers, keeping his attention on the paint bucket in front of him. He wiggles the screwdriver under the lid until it pops open, and, careful of the paint, places the lid on the plastic beside him. Goodnight watches him, rapt as always by Billy’s actions. In another life, he imagines Billy might have been a dancer, his every movement fluid and graceful, every part of his body slender and lithe; but in this life, at this moment, Billy is a painter in the house that they own. Billy is his, and he is Billy’s.

Billy pours the paint into the roller pan, still not spilling a drop, and then looks suddenly at Goodnight. “You like this color?”

“Yes,” Goodnight says with certainty, for how could he dislike it when he’d seen the way it had made Billy smile?

Billy dips his roller into the paint and swipes it up the wall, blotchy from their stripping of the wallpaper that had been on the walls since Goodnight’s aunt had lived in the room, and Goodnight can’t help but grin at the sage stripe. There’s something much too satisfying in covering up that part of this house with Billy.

“Can’t you read the instructions,” Billy asks after a moment when he glances over his shoulder to find Goodnight doing nothing but watching him.

Goodnight scoffs, giving his best indignant face. It falls flat, like usual. “Billy, I read for a living, of course I can figure out the instructions.”

Billy lets their eyes linger; then his face lights up as his lips pull back into that smile, so rare to anyone beyond Goodnight, and Goodnight smiles back without realizing it. Billy is beautiful always, but there is nothing in the world that can compare to his smile—his smile as he paints the room and Goodnight assembles the tiny little bed.

In moments like these, Goodnight has to remind himself that this is _real_.

 **2006**  

“It's a tragedy, I tell you, a damn tragedy. This an intrinsic part of the system, and nothing will be resolved until we face the fact that as much as we believe we have, this nation has come no further since the fifties. If you ask—”

“The hell are you going on about now,” Sam asks as he looks up from his menu. They’re seated in a little Canal Street diner, their usual place to meet for lunch owing to the fact that it’s neatly between Tulane and the precinct. It’s an awkward hour, too late for lunch but still too early for dinner, and at the moment there are only four other customers besides themselves. Goodnight directs his scowl from the television on the wall to him.

“Sam, if I wanted to be ignored, I'd just stay in class,” he gripes with a shake of his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose where there are still imprints of where his glasses had rested. Somehow, despite it being the height of summer, he still manages to look cool in his blazer and chinos, straight from a Banana Republic catalogue. When he looks like this, and when he talks like this, Sam forgets how they met.

Changing his topics, Goodnight continues his rant, “I don’t understand why anyone would choose to take summer classes if they didn’t want to be there. Don’t waste my time if you want to waste yours. And it’s a goddamn entry-level English, we learn what verbs are. How is that asking—you know what, I don’t care, they’re not getting extra credit.”

“You’re sour today,” Sam notes, turning back to the menu. They eat here regularly, but he always goes through the motions of looking. With a shrug, Goodnight scowls down to the coffee resting in front of him and takes another sip. “Everything all right? How’s Billy?”

It’s the magic word. Instantly Goodnight sits up a little straighter, and Sam hides his smugness behind taking a sip of his own coffee. He never knew what would happen when he bailed at the last minute.

“Oh, you know Billy. We’ve talked about trying to open another restaurant, but I think he likes the convenience of this one too much. Likes being hands-on and able to work at home." 

“You like that.”

“I like how our schedules mix,” Goodnight says, shrugging with a hint of a sideways smile on his face. Leave it to the mention of Billy to be able to do that to him. He’s still grinning when he takes another sip of his coffee. “It’s nice. Mornings are slow, and his schedule is adaptable to mine. Hard to get him out of that damned kitchen, though. I created a monster when we redid that thing.”

“Any more thoughts on selling?”

Goodnight shakes his head, smile slipping from his face. “I can feel my mother’s fingers on my throat at the mere thought of someone besides a Robicheaux in that place. I'm already the black sheep enough, should probably keep the ancestral house, as much as I’ve desecrated it. And it’s not like Billy would ever let go of that kitchen. I think we might get a dog though. Just so it's not so empty and quiet, you know?”

Sam nods and glances to the grill, focusing instead on the eggs popping. Empty and quiet is exactly what the Robicheaux-Rocks monstrosity is—empty and quiet and too big to be remedied by a reasonable number of dogs. He doesn’t say that aloud though. There’s no reason to rile him up.

On his shoulder, his radio crackles to life, and a dispatcher buzzes something about a dispute around the Calliope. While he’s sorry he’ll have to cut their meeting short, Sam doesn’t think much of the call. He makes routine trips out to the Calliope area, and this won’t be anything unusual.

Until he hears the address.

He knows that address for all the wrong reasons.

* * *

There are several names around New Orleans that citizens know.

Madame Marie keeps the Business District functioning with the best coffee around. The Treme has a handful of musicians like Little Dickey and Jojo Joba that can liven up any crowd, and no tourist goes home without a painting from Millie Roux, who sits across from the market in Jackson Square every day. And as for the name Delacroix—the New Orleans Police Department knows that name well.

Six years ago, after numerous incidents and incarcerations, they'd gotten the call that John Delacroix had finally been killed during a home robbery, leaving behind a shaken woman and their toddler son. Sam would admit he was glad the man was dead; he’d been tired of hearing the same news that Delacroix, in an infamous drunken rage, was in for beating on the lady, no more than a child herself, and if anything had happened to the boy...well, Sam probably would have been seeing his buddies from the other side of the cell.

When he arrives, first responders already have tape up, circling the mailbox and lone shrub in the front yard and tied at the fencing in the back, and officers duck under it as they hustle from their cars to the house, shotgun style but not the kind tourists like to take pictures of, with its paint all but peeled and a board on at least one window—probably the one from the robbery. Sam parks just as they bring out the first body bag.

“How bad,” he asks the officer, Pettys, who approaches him.

“Two down, three alive. Still not sure exactly what happened besides the fact this lady can’t choose her friends well.”

 _Some people aren’t born with the gift of decision making_ , Sam wants to say, but he follows Pettys inside wordlessly. Heat hits him like a wall, no air circulating in the little toaster of a house. It’s worse now than the last call they received, and Sam wonders if it’s been cleaned since then, with unwashed dishes piled in the sink and on the counters, food bags and wrappers in the floor, the carpet dingy and stained so badly it looks patterned. Sam waits for a roach to go crawling, pressing the back of his hand to his nose. No matter how many times he responds to these calls, it never gets easier.

“How’s the boy,” Sam can’t help but ask. He knows generally how the boy is, and that is worse off than he would be if his mother had enough sense to fill a teaspoon.

Pettys stopped in his tracks. “Boy?”

Instantly, Sam's stomach drops. They'd stuffed two bodies into bags and handcuffed the other three, and for all they knew, the boy was either watching everything, or he belonged in one of those body bags. Without realizing he’s moving, Sam finds himself in one of the bedrooms, throwing back the clothes in the closet, tossing away different piles on the floor. It's summer in New Orleans, hot and humid and hellish enough without baking in the oven that is this little house. 

There’s nothing in the bedroom, and Sam goes tearing into the next, which, save for a single twin mattress on the floor and dresser, is empty. His heart pounds, and he leans his palms against the wall as he tries to steady himself. Two bodies. They’ve pulled out two bodies. If the boy is one of them…his stomach lurches at the thought. He hasn’t been a praying man in a long time, but he can’t help but think one now.

Think. It’s exactly what he has to do. If the police had come to his house as a child, Sam would have hidden. The boy isn’t in either bedroom, and there aren’t many more places he could hide, but he must be somewhere. Sam turns and goes to the bathroom one room over, checking behind the shower curtain and in the cabinets to no avail, and the kitchen proves to be just as fruitless. Battling back an ever-rising panic, Sam closes the cabinet under the sink. One more shot. If he’s not in the living room, Sam will have to ask about the bodies.

He finds him behind the couch, knees drawn to his chest, chin resting on top, his fair hair plastered to his head as sweat drips down his face. He meets Sam's eye with his own fearful green ones. “Mom’s in a lot of trouble this time, ain't she?”

 _Mom’s been in a lot of trouble since she was seventeen_ , Sam wants to say, but he doesn't.

“I'd say she is. Are you Joshua?” Sam squints as sweat drips into his eye and then wipes at his brow. The boy nods, pulling his knees tighter against his chest, and Sam wishes he had said he wasn’t. “I'm Officer Chisolm. Why don't…why don't you come out? We’ll get you some help.”

“No, I like it here.”

“Son, you can either do it yourself or someone will get you, but either way, you'll be coming out,” Sam says. He sits back on his haunches, waiting, and after a moment, there's the scraping of fabric on fabric and a blond head appears. Maybe he has more sense than his mama. Sam waits for him to stand before he takes hold of the back of his dirty shirt. He walks him out the door, unnoticed while the other officers bustle about the crime scene, and opens the backdoor of his car. The boy frowns at the car, then up at Sam, and without meaning to, Sam’s commander voice comes out. “Go on now, get in.”

No matter how scared the boy may be, Sam gives him credit for the frown he receives before he climbs into the back seat. Sam shuts the door and slides into the driver’s side with a sigh. This isn’t what he should be doing. But this is his job, so he starts the car and heads to the highway.

It's his job, even though at the moment, he wishes it wasn't. He wants criminals in the back of his car, not children he's taking from their home, no matter how much he thinks it shouldn't be their home.

Sam takes the exit off the Pontchartrain Expressway for the precinct, preparing himself for a long night. It's nearing four, and with no family, the boy will be sitting at the precinct for hours until they can find somewhere to put him. Though he wouldn’t be surprised if it was well-past midnight before a family is found, Sam won’t go home until he’s been placed somewhere. It’s the least he can do.

It’s not the first time he’ll have seen him sitting in the station. Once a few years ago, someone had let it slip that was the Faraday girl’s kid waiting on the bench, and Sam had stepped outside and called Goodnight; he’d hung up after the first couple of rings and said it had been an accident, and Goodnight had taken his word at face value. Or maybe he hadn’t, but he’d at least pretended like it.

Sam turns onto St. Charles Avenue. Goodnight usually cooks something late in the evening so Billy can eat once he gets home, so maybe he can pop over to their place once he gets off, considering it’s only a few blocks away. He’ll need a lie for why he was working so late if he does, not that Billy will ever believe him anyway. He’ll feel guilty about this lie, though. The boy deserves somewhere better than the police station. He deserves somewhere better than the hellhole he got with the mother he wasn’t supposed to have.

Goodnight’s and Billy’s house is only a few blocks away.

The boy deserves better. And so do they.

Sam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It’s not quite legal what he wants to do, but it’s where the boy should be.

He passes MLK and keeps driving down St. Charles, past businesses mingled with sprawling homes hundreds of years old, the red-trimmed green streetcars still ambling under ancient oaks. From his rearview mirror, he watches Joshua fidget in the seat and crane his neck to look out the window, down the street to where the precinct is, but he stays quiet even as they pull up to a house.

“Let’s go,” Sam says, holding open the door.

Joshua looks first to him, then to the house looming behind him, and says, “That's not the jail.”

“I know. This is better,” Sam answers. He can tell Joshua tries not to squirm beneath the grip he places on the back of his shirt, and though he doubts it's voluntary, he twists his shoulders as Sam walks him through the stone pillars on either side of the wrought-iron gate, up the matching stone stairs to the tall, wide porch. It looks like something from a movie, or maybe a textbook, with white columns lining both the main floor and balconies. The only color to the house comes from the black shutters on the vast and numerous windows and from the heavy oaken door. Still with a hand on the back of his shirt, Sam rings the bell, which echoes loudly throughout the house, and they wait until there's a shadow at the door.

The door opens slowly to Billy, lithe and stylish in all black. His loose t-shirt somehow manages to show his every lean muscle, and dark eyes survey the two people standing in front of him with quick clarity. He takes one look at Sam, then to the boy, and frowns at Sam. “Goody isn't here.”

“That's a shame. I wanted to talk to both of you,” Sam says, feeling the radiating animosity. It really is a shame. If Goodnight had been home, he would have a better chance; as it is, Sam couldn't say Billy was particularly fond of him, and judging by the look in his eye, he isn't quite willing to be sweet. “Billy, this is Joshua. Joshua, this is Billy. 

Billy cuts his eyes down to the boy before squinting back up at Sam. “I need a favor, Billy. Nothing much.”

To anyone else, it looks like Billy's face doesn't change, but Sam can see that the man has mentally gouged out his eyes twice in the seconds since he'd said that. His only hope is Goodnight because if Goodnight finds out Sam had asked for a favor that Billy refused, he won’t be happy. Sam thinks for a moment and wonders if they’d fight about it when Goodnight gets home. He hopes not. He doesn’t particularly want to be the cause of a fight, and Billy already doesn’t like him; but really he doesn’t think Billy likes anyone except Goodnight.

He doesn’t want to be the cause of a fight, but they need this.

Really, he’s the one doing them a favor. “Come on, Billy. His mom got taken in, just watch him for a few days.”

“There are people for that,” Billy growls, and Sam swears his grip on the door tightens. Knees bent, his ever-discerning eyes on them, he looks ready to slam the door shut and run as far as possible, or at least until he runs into Goodnight. Billy turns his gaze down to Joshua with a wince. His knuckles are white from his grip on the door, and his jaw clenches tightly. It’s almost satisfying to see Billy less than composed.

“Sam…” Billy sighs, and Sam imagines that this is his way of begging. He swallows hard, eyes closing for just a moment, and then he holds open the door. “Just a few days.”

* * *

Before Sam can follow the boy inside, Billy shuts the door.

And then he’s stuck in the foyer with a scrawny, dirty Joshua. _Josh_. It’s Monday, the only day he closes the restaurant, the day he and Goodnight are truly free to spend their evenings however they choose, but Billy has a terrible, sickening feeling that they aren’t free anymore. His heart hammers, and he clenches his fists at his side, wondering if this is how Goodnight feels when he wakes from a nightmare.

For a long, tense while, Billy stares at him while Josh surveys the house. He understands how he’s likely feeling, having been overwhelmed and awestruck the first time Goodnight had brought him here, but he thinks maybe Josh’s surprise has him beaten.

“Big house,” Josh says, startling Billy in the quiet as it echoes through the halls.

“Yes,” Billy answers, and then it’s quiet once more. Involuntarily, his eyes flick to the door, though he knows Sam is gone, and when he glances back down to Josh, he’s met with a pair of green eyes too hard for their childish face—too hard, too wary, too uneasy. Billy wants to reach out to him, pull him close like he does with Goodnight and reassure him he’s safe, but he catches himself; he’s not safe, and they both know that.

“Do you want to watch television,” Billy asks, if only to get away from him. Josh gives him one last dissecting squint before dropping his eyes with a shrug, and Billy, hoping the boy follows, goes to turn on the television in the living room. Still on the History Channel from where Goodnight had been watching something on Frankenstein a few nights before, underwater images of the _Titanic_ flicker onto the screen, and Billy puts down the remote; the _Titanic_ is interesting enough. He turns to find Josh gingerly settling himself into the far corner of the couch. “I’ll—”

He watches as the boy starts to pull up his legs, hesitates, and toes off his shoes. One sock has a hole in the toe, the other in the heel that no longer covers his actual heel, and Billy’s chest tightens. He should have better than this.

“I’ll be in there. Dinner,” he says hurriedly and beelines through the dining room to the adjoining kitchen.

 _He’s supposed to have better than that,_ Billy thinks as he leans onto the counter. For a moment, he thinks he’s going to be sick, and he presses his palms into his eyes, willing himself calm. He needs to focus on dinner. Focus on the dinner that will be delicious, that Joshua has never had because he’s never had Billy’s cooking or what looks to be a decent meal in his life, but that could also be because he’s never had Billy’s cooking—

Billy reaches for his phone and types a frantic message.

_Come home NOW._


	2. Another Night Lost Crawling the Walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So long as I'm alive, literally and figuratively, updates are going to be on the 27 of each month, which is kinda far between, but we're all either working, schooling, or both. Feel free to hit us up on tumblr if you'd like: @geekyelvenchick, @rosecreeksashes, and @voteforintensepuppets.
> 
> Thanks to David Gross for "Crawling the Walls."

**2006**

When Goodnight arrives home, Billy is hunkered over the kitchen counters, furiously scrubbing at what Billy only knows. Even after a meal, the place is never less than tidy, but Billy has the type of soul where restless energy and idleness simply can’t coexist.

“Sam came by and…what is that,” Billy says the moment Goodnight comes into the kitchen. Goodnight puts down the squirming puppy in his arms just as the thought that maybe it's a bad idea comes to mind. The puppy, small and brown with feet too big, skitters over the polished floors towards Billy, who reels back as though scalded when it raises up against his leg, his fist squeezing a pool of water from his sponge onto the counter.

“Stress cleaning again, cher,” Goodnight asks, his mouth quirking in the offer of a smile, as if he’d given an appropriate response.

“This isn't a fucking joke,” Billy spits back, with real venom creeping at his voice. Goodnight startles and hurries to reclaim the puppy before it can do any real damage besides existing. He loves Billy, really, he does, but he'll be the first to admit that Billy Rocks can be a frightening man, and right now, Billy is scowling something fierce. “I sent you a message an hour ago, and you come home with _this_.”

“It was a surprise. I was on my way, you know how traffic gets—”

“I called you. Multiple times.”

“I know, Billy, I heard you all the way down South Claiborne,” Goodnight insists, heat creeping at his voice before he can check it, and he feels guilty as soon as he hears himself. Billy’s jaw twitches in a sign Goodnight is on the brink of a royal screw-up, and while he tries to remain impassive, there's too much of a snap when he asks, “I'm here now, so what's the problem?”

“What's the problem,” Billy repeats. His eyebrows disappear into the hair that today hangs un-styled in his face. “ _What's the problem?_ Take a look for yourself.”

Suppressing a huff, Goodnight follows the path of Billy’s hand, out of the kitchen and through the dining room, fully expecting nothing impressive.

He should have known better than to doubt Billy.

Goodnight’s hand that is stroking the puppy’s velvety ears involuntarily stops alongside his heart when he glances into the living room. The television displays underwater scenes of the _Titanic_ while on the couch opposite the television, a boy huddles in the corner, his knees drawn to his chest. For a moment, Goodnight wonders if he’ll leave a spot on the couch before he wonders why there is a child on the couch to leave a spot in the first place.

Goodnight moves out of the doorway, hoping the boy won't notice them discussing him, and says, “What is—ah...I’m not sure I understand.”

“Sam just dumped him here. Said his name was Joshua, his mom was in trouble, and he'd be back for him in a few days.”

His stomach jumps at the name, yet for whatever reason, Goodnight asks, “Why is he watching the History Channel?”

“How should I know what kids like,” Billy hisses, squeezing his sponge that, from his grip, should have been long dry. Goodnight watches the water drip and then takes another glance into the living room. His heart twists, though he doesn't know if it's from the sight of a child, or if it's that the child is so disheveled, so out of place in their home. He assumes it's a combination because any child that they would have had— _if_ they'd had any—would have had better than that. They could have given a child everything.

If they'd had any.

This is a disaster. Smoke, gunfire, loss of limbs—Goodnight can handle those disasters, or at least he knows how they’re supposed to be handled. The truth of the matter is that he probably couldn’t handle even one of those disasters now, which is why he’s so grateful for Billy, who could add _Disaster Handler_ to his resume. And that would be all well and good if the biggest part of this disaster wasn’t Billy himself.

There’s a part of Goodnight that’s afraid to turn back around, lest he find Billy seated at the counter in three-day-old clothes and red eyes, hurt and scared, a sight Goodnight had never expected after ten days with no sign of Billy. With a determination that far outweighed their hesitancy, Goodnight and Billy had pieced themselves back together and left those ten days in the hell where they’d belonged, and they hadn’t looked back since. Billy started saying _I love you_ more, and Goodnight started to believe him again, maybe with a little more conviction. That’s how they made it here.

Here, where Billy isn’t sporting dirty clothes and bloodshot eyes, but where instead he’s watching Goodnight with that same face from a year ago when he’d watched the storm roll in: his face tight, mouth open just slightly as though to stop himself from biting his lip, eyes watching Goodnight for his reassurance the storm will be fine. Setting down the puppy once more with a payer it doesn't pee, Goodnight steps closer to Billy and runs a hand through his hair, letting it linger on his cheek. The anger that had burned in Billy's eyes has died out, and he now meets Goodnight’s with a faraway gaze, brows halfway knitted together and jaw determinedly clenched.  “I'll talk to Sam, ok? I'll call him right now, and we'll work this out.”

“Thank you,” Billy says softly, dropping his gaze.

Goodnight steps onto the back porch and dials Sam’s number with a deep breath. He doesn't understand what Sam is doing—or at least, he doesn't want to understand—but Sam never does anything without motivation. It's cruel, he thinks, for him to have done this to Billy knowing what had happened before.

Sam answers on the fourth ring. “Hey, Goody.”

“I told you we'd talked about getting a dog. This isn’t a dog,” Goodnight sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, wishing the day Billy and Sam got along would come sooner than later. Wishing he maybe hadn’t gotten the dog either. 

“This is better than a dog. Doesn't need help going to the bathroom.”

“You're a real hoot, Sam, and half a holler too,” Goodnight says without bothering to hide his frustration. He wouldn’t mind so much if Sam didn’t sound so damn smug with himself, if he showed any kind of consideration, but instead he sounds perfectly aware of what he’s done and could care less about it. On more than one occasion over the years, Billy has tiptoed around the fact he doesn’t think Sam is a good friend; it’s occasions like this where the fact he could be correct creeps into Goodnight’s mind. “Sam, Billy is fairly upset about this.”

“Billy is always upset—”

“Billy is never upset.” It comes out harsher than Goodnight intends, but he isn’t quite guilty because Billy stopped being a topic for criticism after that first Independence Day. And it’s the truth, mostly. Billy isn’t a warm person, not outwardly, though it would be a lie to say he isn't easy-going, more flexible and unwavering than anyone Goodnight has ever known. There’s a pause while Sam evaluates the snap, while he strategizes how to cover his tracks, obviously realizing Goodnight is going to stand his ground after an attack on Billy—a sloppy move, really, on Sam’s part.

“It’s just for a few days, Goody, like I told him. From the way it sounds, his mom should see the judge and be out after that. It’s better than a foster home,” Sam says, none of his smugness in his voice anymore. Goodnight hates to admit Sam is at least right about that.

“Billy called him Joshua.”

“That’s right. Joshua, Joshua Faraday.”

This time it’s Goodnight’s turn for silence as the statement, so casual, hits him like a freight train and sends his words rushing out breathlessly. “Sam, we’ve already gone through this once.”

“Do this for him, not me,” Sam answers, and then says, “I’ll talk to you later. We’ll get lunch next week,” before hanging up.

Goodnight shudders a breath at the click. It has to be a coincidence, nothing more, and a coincidence that lasts just for a few days. Just for a few days it’ll be more than just Billy and himself in the house, and after that, things will return to normal. He can’t decide if that’s a punishment or reward.

“Well,” Billy asks when Goodnight opens the door, “is he coming back?”

“Billy…” is all Goodnight gets out before Billy’s shaking his head and sucking on his teeth, eyes rolled towards the ceiling. If it’s a perk, it’s also a downfall how well they know each other: on the one hand, he doesn’t have to explain; on the other, Billy doesn’t have to say a word for Goodnight to know how disappointed he is. Goodnight’s stomach drops at the sight, how Billy finally turns his face to him with a thin mouth and a hard swallow. Billy is rarely upset, and never at him.

“Billy, it’ll all be fine, you know, nothing will change, it’ll be all right.” He’s babbling, he knows, but he can’t stop himself, and he can’t stand the look on Billy’s face. Surely he can say something to get it to change. “We can go out and such, we’ll have fun—”

“I didn't even make the kids menu,” Billy hisses, “what do I know about kids?”

“We wanted them, Billy.”

“Wanted. Past tense. We gave that up.” At the weight of his own words hitting him, Billy’s scowl falters into more of a snarl, and he shakes his head once more, his shoulders dropping in defeat. His face loses its hardness. “Goody.”

It’s achingly low and wavering, and Goodnight is drawn to it just as he is always drawn to Billy, whose chest rises and falls quickly, his knuckles white on the countertops. Goodnight wedges his way between Billy and the counter and turns his face towards him, pressing their foreheads together. “Hey. We’re fine, Billy, we’re fine.”

Billy trades the countertop for Goodnight’s shirt, for which Goodnight is grateful. More than anything, he wants their roles to be reversed as they usually are, wants Billy to hold on tightly and reassure him that their world is right and he is there, but even Billy has his breaking points. After so long and so many sleepless nights and restless days, he can do this for Billy. He’ll stand there with his own soft reassurances for the rest of the night if it helps.

“We can do this. _You_ can do this. All those times you pulled me out of the dark, I’d think a kid would be the least of your troubles. And you know what? Eight years I spent in the army, and you’re still the toughest sonovabitch I know.” Goodnight kisses Billy’s lips as they flicker into the ghost of a smile.

“We’ll be just fine,” he says, wrapping an arm around Billy’s shoulders and pulling him closer. There’s a huff of air into the crook of his neck, which Goodnight assumes is Billy laughing, just slightly, as he lets go of Goodnight’s shirt to return the embrace.

“I love you,” Billy murmurs into his neck, and Goodnight relaxes against him. That’s all they need.

With a real grin on his face, Billy is pulling away and closing the gap between their mouths when they both falter at the sound coming from the living room. It's light and happy and so utterly out of place that Goodnight’s hand slips from Billy’s hair down his back, his eyes blinking quickly as he tries to place where he knows the sound. And he doesn't, not really; in his childhood, there had been no laughter in the house, not from him or his parents. It echoes in the stillness and leaves them reeling, and both he and Billy move, dreamlike, to find it.

In their carelessness, the puppy had wandered into the living room and made his way onto Josh’s chest, lapping excitedly at his face while his tail shakes his entire backside. Josh laughs again when the puppy’s tongue slips up his nose. “Stop—stop it, Jack!”

“I'm going to finish dinner,” Billy mumbles, and suddenly Goodnight finds himself alone in the doorway, staring into the living room that has gone silent except for the _Titanic_.

Josh had gone from smiling to stoic within a blink of an eye, his hand on the puppy’s back like it might save him. There's a twisting in his heart again as he regards the child and the child regards him, wary, waiting. He's fair-haired with a pair of green eyes Goodnight would swear he's seen before—but he's imagining that because a fair-haired, green-eyed Joshua Faraday is nothing but the world’s cruelest coincidence.

“Sorry it's taken so long to introduce myself, but we weren't—we weren't quite prepared for this,” Goodnight says, his hands slung into his pants pockets, desperate to break the silence as much as he doesn't really want to talk. “Name’s Goodnight, Goodnight Robicheaux. I see you've met…you've met my husband, Billy.”

If the fact Goodnight calls Billy his husband is a surprise, Josh doesn't let it show; he squeezes the puppy, though it doesn't seem to mind, just stands limply in his grip, tail beating back and forth lazily. Josh looks down at it, then back up at Goodnight.

“Sorry I put him on the furniture,” he says, despite showing any inclination towards getting him off the furniture.

“Oh, I don't mind,” Goodnight shrugs because he doesn't mind, and the kid is probably nervous enough as it is. “He’s never been here before either, so I'm glad he's making friends. Why’d you call him Jack?”

This time Josh shrugs. “Seemed like a Jack. Like Captain Jack. I like him.” Goodnight snorts but recognizes the reference; a dumb movie, but Billy had laughed at it, as surprising as that had been. He supposes kids would like Captain Jack.

“Well I like it too. Reminds me of Jack London. Have you read…” The look on Josh's face says no, he has not read Jack London, nor does he know who he is, nor does he particularly care to know. “Well, he was an author, got famous for writing about dogs.”

Josh’s face says he cares very much.

Goodnight snorts again, feeling utterly out of place and almost abandoned. Eighteen years of Varina Robicheaux’s good breeding, her charms and eloquence she had worked so diligently to instill in him, seem to have vanished the moment he took sight of the boy on the couch, and he has no idea what to do. His every pretty word has left him, and he finds himself unable to ignore the uncomfortable air. 

But Josh seems just as uncomfortable, if not more, and Goodnight wants so badly to help him. It isn't fair for him to be like this. Though lots of things aren't fair.

“I talked to Sam—Officer Chisolm. He thinks your mom will be out soon,” he says, watching Joshua tense at the mention of the elephant. Goodnight dips his head; Sam shouldn't have done this. “I know none of us were expecting this, but you're more than welcome here. We've got plenty of space, we’ll get you whatever you need. We can figure this out together. You'll be—you'll be safe here.”

 _Doubt it,_ Josh’s face reads, but he vocalizes, “Ok.”

* * *

When Billy appears just long enough to tell Goodnight dinner is ready, Josh reluctantly slides off the couch. He thought he’d rather sit in that same spot for however long it took for that stupid cop to come back for him, but whatever Billy’s cooked smells better than anything he can ever remember. Shoving his feet into his shoes—Jack will definitely eat them, and then what will he have—he scoops Jack back up and follows Goodnight into the kitchen.

Whatever he was expecting is not what he gets. The kitchen alone is as big as the entire front half of his house, sparkling white from cabinets to ceiling, white everywhere except for the floors and countertops. He’s never seen anything so clean and shiny, not even after the janitor waxes the floors at school, and he’s afraid to touch anything. As for Billy, Josh isn’t sure it’s the same man who answered the door, judging from the way he and Goodnight are laughing about something over the pots on the stove, relaxed and happy, completely oblivious to him whatsoever.

So they don’t like him either. No surprise there.

Josh stands in the doorway and squeezes Jack to his chest. Jack likes him. Jack has never been here either and he’d licked his nose, so he figures they’re in this together. Captain Jack and Joshua Faraday in their greatest adventure yet.

“Come on in and fix you plate,” Goodnight says, breaking Josh from his daydream. It’s friendly enough but daunting nonetheless, and taking a deep breath that he hopes they don’t see, Josh lets go of Jack. Goodnight is nice enough and Jack is still in the room and the food smells so dang good. It’ll be fine.

Except for the way Billy goes back to frowning.

**1995**

They had taken one look at the master suite, and, upon seeing Varina Robicheaux’s beloved country-blue, floral wallpaper, decided they would not be sleeping in there until they had new walls at the very least.

Goodnight refills the roller pan. Two weeks later and they finally—thankfully—have the room cleared with plastic on the floors and the first coat on the walls, the first goodbye that hadn’t felt so much like a farewell than a good snub. When they’re done, there will be no sign of Augustin and Varina Robicheaux, no sign of his grandparents or third cousins or great-great-aunts; it’s going to be just Billy and him, and this house is going to be _theirs_.

“Maybe we should do one of the other rooms next,” Billy says, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and still managing to leave a streak of gray; somehow he still looks flawless, like that streak had been destined to feel the grace of Billy’s temple. “Yellow would be nice, or maybe green. Or pink. What do you think of pink? Pink or blue?”

“I think it sounds like we’re going to end up with striped walls,” Goodnight jokes at Billy’s indecisiveness. They’d spent hours deciding on this gray alone; at that rate, it’ll take them an eternity to get through the other bedrooms, much less the downstairs that holds a bit more social importance. Not that Goodnight cares. There’s no other way he wants to spend his time.

“There are no more colors,” Billy says seriously, then adds, “Pink or blue?”

Back to Billy, Goodnight freezes with his roller hovering over the pan, glad for the excuse he’ll have later that he was letting the paint drip. Suddenly his mouth is dry, his mouth, the sultry summer air, everything is dry and crackling, his hair standing on edge. When bombs go off—and this is certainly a bomb—there's a moment of blindness followed by silence and then ringing, and he feels like he's picking himself up off the ground to that very same ringing. Billy must have lost his mind.

But if he has, Goodnight wants so badly to lose his too.

**2006**

Despite a dinner filled with lingering touches and long looks and an evening spent pressed into Goodnight’s side while the other man murmured reassurances into his ear, Billy lies awake that night with his head reeling.

He watches the fan swish overhead, blades turning so quickly that they all run together, even in the dark. In the bed next to him, Goodnight shifts restlessly, and Billy wonders how he's really feeling. Goodnight displays his heart more than any of his medals, but if he's distressed, Billy thinks he's done one hell of a job hiding it. Billy hasn't hidden his distress at all. Really it's a miracle Goodnight is this put-together.

Maybe that's why Billy loves him so much. He’ll admit _Goodnight_ and _put-together_ usually only go in the same sentence when describing his clothing and classes, but when he has to, he grabs his bootstraps and drags out this battlefield mentality that Billy can only awe over. It's a mentality Billy is thankful for, and if he’s being honest, it's a mentality that kept them together the last time. Billy isn't proud of that time—proud of Goodnight, absolutely, and thankful too, but not proud of himself. 

He can't stop thinking of it now. He keeps waiting to find himself suddenly at the restaurant, not sure how he got there, dressed in wrinkled clothes that have smelled better, and when he finally struggles home, no one will be here, not Goodnight, not even Josh. No one. It'll be his fault.

Now here they are with a child down the hall, and Goodnight is sleeping beside him, and it’s so much like how everything should have been that Billy aches, though whether it’s from fear or longing, he doesn’t know. Both? It’s probably both.

In the bed next to him, Goodnight stirs more than just restlessly, his forehead creased and jaw clenched. Billy runs a knuckle down his temple, hoping it will calm him, but Goodnight only mutters something under his breath. Billy lets him alone; he'd read once that touch can make it worse, and he doesn't want to make it worse, even as it seems to grow worse.

* * *

In the third bedroom off the staircase, Josh watches the fan blades and thinks they’re churning his stomach instead of the air.

The only light filtering into the room comes from the moon and maybe the streetlamp a few houses down, sending shadows over the walls and floor that he swears would grab him if he moved, and the house creaks and groans every so often like it’s getting ready to swallow him whole. He wouldn’t put it past the house to do that, considering he’d never really thought houses like this existed; sure, he’s seen them a few times in passing, but he never expected there to be anything inside them, much less people.

His stomach churns and churns, and he’s going to throw up, but he’s too scared to touch the floor or even come out from under the sheet. He hopes he doesn’t throw up because their food had been so good and they hadn’t stopped him from eating as much as he’d wanted, so he’d gone to bed with a full stomach that is now ready to betray him. He’s going to throw up, yet he’s both terrified to get out of bed and at the thought of what they might do to him if he throws up in their fancy bed.

Once he accidentally wet the bed, and when his dad had found out, he hadn’t been able to sit down for the rest of the day. Josh doesn’t remember anything else from that day except his fists in his mom’s hair as she said over and over, “Dry your tears, baby, it’s ok.” And while they’re nothing like his parents, Josh isn’t sure how Goodnight and Billy would react to a soiled bed. Where John Delacroix had done nothing but snap and bite at quiet Maggie Faraday until the moment he was shot, Goodnight and Billy had laughed and played and touched all evening. They’re weird, Joshua thinks, and it’s the only way he knows to describe them.

As his stomach rolls more violently, Josh’s distrust outweighs his fear, and he swings his feet over the side of the bed and hurries as quietly as possible to the door. Two doors down and across the hall, Goodnight had said when he’d pointed out the bathroom, next to his and Billy’s room. When the floor creaks under his feet, Josh’s blood runs cold, and he waits for them to yell at him for being out of his room after bedtime—which is something that only leads to trouble. But nothing happens, so he closes the bathroom door, turning the lock and dropping to his knees just in time.

His mouth fills with the taste of salt, and there’s a beat before he chokes, his body lurching over the toilet and emptying him of his dinner. Mouth burning, he wonders if his eyes are stinging more from the vomit or the fact the first genuine meal he remembers having is gone. He waits another beat to see if there’s more, but he’s left kneeling at the toilet with only a bad taste in his mouth.

Josh wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then the back of his hand across his shirt. That was the first time he’d ever sat down at a table with other people and ate food that he’s almost certain didn’t come from a box—at least, it hadn’t tasted like any boxed food he’d ever had—and now it’s all gone. Suppose they find out and don’t let him have dinner tomorrow, suppose they eat without him…

He’s mourning his lost meal when, from the room next door, the silence is cut by a shout, choked and panicked, and then another, louder this time. “Don’t go, don’t go,” it calls, taking on real words instead of simply pure fear, slowly turning into more of a sob. After a moment of listening, Josh reaches a shaking hand to flush the toilet. He’s not waiting around to see what else happens.

With an ache in his throat, Josh crawls under the covers and pulls them to his chin. He swipes furiously at his eyes; first his stomach—or rather, first that stupid cop—and now this. It’s going to be a long few days.

* * *

In the morning when Goodnight comes back inside from letting Jack out, he makes straight for the coffee pot and doesn’t bother to ask Billy if he wants more before he’s grabbed his mug as well. Billy would be grateful under any other circumstances, but as it is, this makes Goodnight’s second refill, and it doesn’t feel like it stems from Goodnight’s love of coffee so much as a need for a vice to get him through the morning—a vice for which Billy has his own desperation.

“Class lets out at two tomorrow. I can be home within the hour, if you’d like,” Goodnight says, his voice is lower than usual this morning, not so chipper and bright, though his face isn’t so chipper and bright either, not unexpectedly. He sips from Billy’s mug, adds another spoon of sugar, then sips again before handing it back to him.

Billy tests it, not surprised when it tastes the same as when he makes it himself. “I’ll see if someone can open for me, find a few extras for the lunch rush. As long as there are no detours this time.”

Goodnight rolls his eyes, not missing the grin Billy offers, and says, “I should have known you’d one-up me with a surprise.”

It’s only then, as they savor their coffee and the silence, that it feels like their usual mornings where Goodnight meditates life through the steam of his mug and Billy spends more time watching him than he does actually cooking. For him to rain down praise upon Billy’s appearance, it’s obvious that he’s never seen himself in the early-morning light, his hair pillow-tussled, glasses hanging from his neck, humming along absently to the radio.

“No,” Billy says as Goodnight breaks from his reverie and heads for the coffee pot again, aborting Goodnight’s refill. “If you drink any more, you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“I’ll pour you another mug too. We’ll make the bathroom into a revolving door.” Billy snorts, mainly at Goodnight laughing at himself, and it feels so normal until Jack goes skittering across the floor, followed by Goodnight’s suddenly chipper, “Good morning!”

It feels so normal until they’re looking at a scraggly kid watching them from the doorway, puppy tucked in his arms like a lifeline. With equal parts, Billy wants to swat it away and pull him close, reassure him there’s no need to be wary of them, though he hasn’t been the most welcoming. He wants to pull him close, but instead he makes for the breadbox.

“Sleep well?” There’s no verbal response, meaning Josh either shrugs or Goodnight isn’t waiting for a response when he says, “Well you’re just in time for breakfast. What is—looks like Billy’s making toast. Is that what we’re having? If it is, you’re in a for a real treat.”

Way back when Goodnight and Billy were first starting to tiptoe around each other, it was this quality that made Billy feel comfortable around him, how he would talk and talk and talk but not necessarily expect a response, and Billy could just listen and listen and listen until he found himself responding without realizing it. Maybe it’s what he’s doing now, and if it is, it only reaffirms his belief that Goodnight is better at this than he could ever imagine to be. It only reaffirms his belief it was stupid of him to think that _this_ could be their normal.

As Billy turns on the range, Goodnight slides out the island stool next to him with his foot, and Josh reluctantly sets down Jack to join him. “Since Sam wasn’t exactly thoughtful enough to leave you with any sort of personals, I thought we could maybe do some shopping today. How does that sound?”

“Yeah, I guess. Whatever,” Josh says with a shrug, his eyes darting around the room, anywhere except another person’s face.

“Well fantastic! Jazzy,” Goodnight exclaims, but Billy side-eyes him. Half the time, he assumes Goodnight isn’t aware of what’s coming out of his mouth. “What say you, Billy? Sound like an outing?”

When Billy startles to face him, Goodnight is perfectly aware of what he has just said this time and is waiting almost expectantly, if not tentatively, and Billy knows exactly what he wants. He thinks they can pretend this is normal, or at least wishes they could, but that’s just foolish. _Just a few days,_ Sam had said, and that’s what Goodnight and Billy had agreed to. In a few days, it’ll be back to either one of two ways, both of which don’t include Josh and one of which doesn’t include even Goodnight.

Shaking his head, Billy drops his head, saying, “I have to work today.”

“That’s fine. Want me to make dinner tonight,” Goodnight asks. He tries for nonchalant, but Billy can hear him asking, _Are you going to be here for dinner?_

“I’ll help you finish up,” Billy promises. Goodnight holds his gaze for a long while before he nods.

* * *

That everything can change without a moment’s notice is a lesson Goodnight spent eight years learning, and it’s a lesson he never thought he’d forget. Somehow though, he’s still surprised to be where he is when only twenty-four hours earlier, he’d been griping at the news and sharing a coffee with Sam. Although somehow...well, he isn’t sure he’s complaining too much. Yet. He isn’t complaining too much yet.

He and Josh had walked with Jack to Sucre, a little sweet shop tucked away a few blocks from the house, and now sit outside watching the tourists and enjoying the rare summer breeze. He looks better in new, clean clothes, a mess of honey curls trying to dry in the summer humidity; there’s ice cream circling his lips, but at least he doesn’t look like they’d pulled him out of the gutter anymore.

“Me and my mom went to an ice cream place once on my birthday,” Josh says suddenly, looking at Goodnight with wide eyes. “Dairy Queen. They have burgers and everything, and she took me on my birthday. You ever been there?”

Goodnight’s first instinct is to laugh, but that quickly dies when he realizes Josh’s excitement is genuine. He swallows his laugh with a fear of crushing that excitement and shakes his head. “Oh yeah, I’ve been to Dairy Queen, long time ago though, back when you could still just walk right up to the window. But with Billy, you know, you kind of want to support locals."

Despite Goodnight’s efforts, Josh loses his excitement and frowns around his ice cream cone, saying through a bite, “Billy’s kinda mean.”

“Billy isn’t mean. He’s just—Billy’s shy,” Goodnight says automatically before he can think, and he can only imagine Billy’s indignation at being called shy. If Goodnight were a child though—or if he didn’t know Billy at all—he would probably be put off as well. He’s cold to the passerby and he has a face of stone, but Goodnight knows the light in his smile and the warmth of his arms, and he knows it’s there for Josh too. Somewhere. “It’s like...you know how you said your shoes felt funny when you put them on, but they’re fine now? Well, that’s what it’s like with Billy. He takes some getting used to. You two’ll get along.”

Josh gives him another _doubt-it_ look, but it doesn’t seem quite as harsh when he doesn’t look ready to beg to Mr. Bumble. Maybe Josh knows that because he frowns at his ice cream again. “Why’re you and Billy...like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know.” Josh wiggles the fingers on his free hand at Goodnight. “You’re all touchy and stuff." 

This time Goodnight does laugh; that was not what he’d been expecting, but he’ll take it over anything else. “Well we do happen to love each other.”

There’s a beat, and then, with as much frankness and offhandedness as Billy gives, Josh offers something that leans more towards an observation than a critique: “Guess no one’s ever loved my mom.”

Suddenly Goodnight’s ice cream doesn’t taste so sweet. No, he supposes no one ever has loved Maggie, but that’s a good part of the problem. He searches for any answer that isn’t stuttering or cliché, but thankfully, Josh saves him by asking, “Hey, you think Jack likes ice cream?”

“Here,” Goodnight says, spooning out a small bite of his own and holding it out. “Can’t say I want mine all that much anymore.”

Josh looks at Goodnight’s cup as though bewildered at so much going to waste, but in the end, his curiosity trumps bewilderment, and he lowers the spoon down to Jack with that same wide, toothy grin.

Goodnight doesn’t have memories like this. If he’d been at an ice cream shop, it had been with friends and the terrifying threat of behaving. His father had been more preoccupied with Korea and Vietnam, and then with local politics than he had with his wife and child. There are more pictures of them in newspapers than there are in photo albums, save for the family portrait that had been booted to the attic when he and Billy moved in, but Goodnight doesn’t mind anymore. Less to forget this way.

But this is nice, Goodnight thinks, leaning back in his chair. Josh is different, unpredictable and rough, more good in him than he’s willing to let on, and Goodnight has enjoyed being on his toes for the day—Josh has done a better job at that than a good majority of his students. He looks at Josh in the seat across from him, grinning while Jack licks at his sticky fingers, and imagines Billy between them, watching Josh with a smile in his eyes.

**1989**

It's the new year, time to start over, time for change. Time for Billy to realize he could do so much better than a veteran with a messed-up mind. Goodnight wouldn't blame him, and he wouldn't be surprised if they last the week. He'll be more amazed it took Billy so long to come to his senses.

Though he thinks he’s spent the better half of the past year doing nothing else, Goodnight can’t help but look at him, sprawled out on his stomach with one arm slung haphazardly over Goodnight’s chest, hair that he’ll insist be cut soon falling just over his eyes. He’s beautiful in every light, be it a hazy summer sun or a pale winter moon that falls through the cracks in their curtains. Some days he looks at Billy and sees the rest of his life, and some days he wonders just when their show is going to end.

When it does end, if it ends, Goodnight tells himself that it will be fine. Billy deserves the absolute world that even Goodnight can’t buy, and when he leaves, if he does, he’ll be one step closer to it. Goodnight isn’t certain he’ll make it through that ordeal. He’ll try, and he can comfort himself with the fact he spent half a year with Billy, by his side and able to touch him.

It’s what he does now, unable to keep his hands off him.

“Goody,” Billy slurs with a yawn, and Goodnight feels him stretching his toes against his leg. Billy's beautiful when he's just waking up, all half-opened eyes and feather-light smiles.

“Sorry, cher, I didn't mean to wake you,” Goodnight says. He presses his lips to Billy's to receive one of his feather-light smiles. “Do you still love me?”

There's a pause, and Goodnight thinks Billy has fallen asleep again until his eyes crack back open. “Yes, but I might not if you keep waking me up.”

Billy rumbles something akin to a laugh, and while Goodnight lingers on the fact that _he might not,_ Billy edges closer to him, trading his pillow for Goodnight’s chest. Automatically, Goodnight wraps an arm around him, eyes closing to Billy's fingers flitting at the hair of his temple, though they then turn Goodnight’s face to look at him.

Still lingering at the edge of consciousness, Billy blinks a few times before asking in his gentle way, “Can you sleep?”

“Yeah.”

Billy smiles then, fingers leaving a hot stripe down Goodnight’s cheek, and raises up just enough to kiss him before settling back down. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Goodnight whispers, so quiet he almost doesn't hear himself; Billy is still in the bed next to him, unmoving and silent, his head on Goodnight’s chest, one leg slung between his, their fingers winding together like clockwork. Goodnight breathes him in before turning onto his side and tangling their legs together, the arm around Billy’s waist holding him tightly. Billy's hair will tickle his nose the rest of the night, but that's alright.

**2006**

Tuesday turns into Wednesday, which then slips to Thursday and suddenly Monday again with no sign of Sam, and when he doesn’t call the following week either, Billy starts to think Sam lied. Go figure.  
  
They gradually fall into a routine. Billy watches Josh during the weekdays, and Goodnight cuts back the time he spends in his office so Billy can go to the restaurant for the dinner rushes. Goodnight takes him out on the weekends, sometimes stopping by the restaurant, where Josh can do little to hide his amazement, but they leave when the staff’s stares and whispers become too obvious. And on Monday evenings, which had been reserved as date night before Sam intervened, all three go out around New Orleans.  
  
For all his initial distrust, Josh is easy enough to please. They go to the parks with Jack, and he likes the zoo and aquarium, where he’d never been despite living his whole life in the city, and while he isn’t one for museums, they manage to keep his attention with the Mardi Gras one, with its feathered masks and flashy floats.  
  
Billy sees the way Goodnight looks at him, at both of them. He’s happy—not relaxed, but happy, and that makes Billy feel worse because he knows that he’s the cause of the unease. When he walks quietly beside Goodnight, sometimes watching Josh, sometimes seeming to be lost in his thought, he can feel Goodnight’s eyes on him as though waiting for him to vanish from sight and as much as he hates it, he doesn’t want to miss it.  
  
Goodnight reaches for him in those moments when even though Billy is beside him, he must seem so very far away. And maybe Billy is. Maybe he’s lingering in the alternate dimension where none of this ever happened, where it was just Goodnight and Billy until the end of their days; or maybe he’s in the one where this is their normality, Goodnight and Billy with everything they had planned for.  
  
It’s not fair, Billy knows. This is what he had wanted, and when given the chance, he’d left Goodnight to balance on a paper-thin bridge between them. It’s just not fair.

* * *

“You know,” Goodnight says, “for as lackluster as this group was, I’m genuinely impressed by the thought that went into these.”

“So you’re ready for bed now,” Billy asks, closing his laptop quicker than expected as Goodnight shuffles away his stack of essays.

“You could have said you were waiting on me.” He could have told him, they both know that, but they also both know that one way or another Goodnight would have finished grading the essays by morning. He said he’d have them back by the final, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t.

Billy stretches, long and lean and catlike, and waits only for Goodnight to fasten his briefcase before he’s taking his leave, certain Goodnight will follow along. And he does, admiring Billy as he goes, graceful even in his stupor. Billy is funny. He speaks deliberately and moves like a dancer, and if he’d only been as pale as Southern cotton and a woman, Varina Robicheaux would have loved Billy more than her own son. But that’s the part about his parents that hurts the most, Goodnight supposes—unconditional love was only given to the worthy.

He’s so lost in familiar thought that he doesn’t notice Billy stop in the hall until he bumps into him. “What…” he starts to ask, and then he hears it too, the muffled sniffles so accustomed to that room.

“Josh,” Billy calls softly, tapping on the door. There’s no worded response, so Billy turns the knob. Inside is just how Goodnight remembers. The four-post bed too heavy to be moved with any sort of ease, the imported French rug that wasn’t really meant to be walked on, the curtains too sheer to block out any real light if there’d been any light in the first place. It’s a good thing he hadn’t been scared of the dark as child, though maybe Josh isn’t so lucky. He’s flattened himself against the headboard, pillows in the floor, sheets knotted around his feet. His breaths come in sharp shudders that leave his small frame heaving, and sweat soaks his wild curls to his head.

It feels surreal, like Goodnight is watching himself, when Billy reaches for Josh and brushes a hand down his tear-streaked cheeks, saying, “Come here,” so softly that Goodnight almost doesn’t catch it. Josh hesitates, eyes flashing with that same panic that Goodnight knows must look so familiar to Billy, but Billy calls his name in that low, peaceful lull that calms him enough for him to realize, at least partially, where he is.

When he moves, Billy meets him halfway, scooting closer and holding out his other hand so that Josh can tuck himself fully into Billy’s safe hold. And then it’s all soft touches and gentle words as Billy rocks them back and forth, holding Josh’s head to his chest. “Listen,” Goodnight knows Billy is saying, “and make it match.”

“I saw it, I saw it, I saw it,” Josh gasps, to which Billy soothes, “It’s not here. You’re ok.”

Goodnight leaves them like that, Josh clutching at Billy and his safety, Billy murmuring his reassurances. After all, Billy doesn’t need his help.

The bedroom door opens more than an hour later, just as Goodnight’s book is starting to put him to sleep, as if he were truly reading. Billy doesn’t say a word as he closes it behind him, just heads straight for his side of the bed and tosses back the covers with a roughness that from him looks like great finesse. “Billy?”

“He’s just a kid, Goody,” he says, higher than usual, and when Billy finally looks at Goodnight, there’s anger in his eyes desperately trying to overshadow hurt. Sometimes Goodnight thinks Billy has too much heart because it gets him in trouble—not that Goodnight has any room to talk, when his own too-big heart keeps him right beside Billy. 

“I know,” Goodnight says, “but what can we do?”

Billy only looks at Goodnight with his jaw tight. There’s nothing. They can’t do anything because he’s not their child, and Billy knows it. He reaches across to turn out Goodnight’s lamp.

 “It’s not fair.”

* * *

The house is quiet in the morning. The house is quiet and the fancy bed is so very soft, and he rolls onto his back, turning bleary eyes to the fan blowing on his face, keeping him just cool enough beneath the duvet. Maybe he’ll stay in bed all day. Or all week. He doesn’t remember sleeping so well in a long time.

He thinks he’ll stay in bed until he smells something that might be heaven. Billy may not be good for—

Oh.

So, he doesn’t remember sleeping so well in a long time after _that._

Now that he remembers what happened last night—which really isn’t anything more than just another night—Josh isn’t sure he wants to get out of bed for even whatever is cooking because it’s undoubtedly coming from Billy, and he really doesn’t want to face Billy this morning. Billy’s hardly spoken more than a dozen words to him in the two weeks he’s been there, and last night he’d been...stupid. Just stupid.

But good Lord, that smell is fantastic.

“Good morning,” Billy says when he comes into the kitchen. He’s mixing batter in a bowl, and for once, he actually looks up. It’s sudden and awkward, and thankfully, for both their sakes, it doesn’t last long. “I was about to wake you. I’m making pancakes.”

“Where’s Goody,” Josh asks, climbing onto one of the island stools. He hopes the answer is _on his way home_ because he really doesn’t want to be stuck in the house with Billy. Not today. Jack won’t even be able to save him today.

“At the office. This afternoon starts his summer finals,” Billy says. He gives Josh another sudden look, longer this time, and seems as though he has more to say. Then just as suddenly, he drops his gaze and pours the batter into the skillet. He watches his pancake pop and sizzle, leaving an awkward silence between them, before saying, “I have chocolate that I can put in them. If you want.”

“Yeah, ok, I don’t care,” Josh shrugs. He hopes if he’s going to be stuck here that Billy will at least put chocolate in his pancakes because Billy’s food is so good and his mom rarely has chocolate.

It’s quiet then as Billy dribbles chocolate chips onto the pancakes and Josh watches, unmoving from his seat in case Billy decides to let him have some of the bacon on the stove. He does, but only when he dishes out pancakes for each of them and slides one plate towards Josh.

“I thought we could take Goody lunch later. Unless there was something else you would rather do. You like...you like movies.” It comes out indistinguishable from a statement or question, and neither seems able to know how to move on from it.

“Yeah, they’re ok,” Josh says with another shrug. He shoves another piece of bacon into his mouth. It’s a double win: delicious and he doesn’t have to talk.

Judging from the mouthful he inhales, Josh guesses Billy has the same idea. Which is fine. They’ll just eat in silence. If Billy’s going to be like that, he’ll be like that too, he wouldn’t want to talk to Billy anyway, even if Billy wanted to talk to him in the first place. Billy can just be his mean self. Except Billy hadn’t felt mean last night. He’d felt warm and nice, and Josh had fallen asleep listening to his low hum in a language he hadn’t understood. But whatever, it must have been an accident or something.

When they clear away breakfast, Billy lets Jack into the backyard, and then they walk the two blocks to the St. Charles streetcar stop at the corner of Jackson. Billy grabs his shoulder as the streetcar rumbles into motion before they’ve taken a seat, and Josh keeps looking ahead, pretends like he didn’t keep him from falling. Rolling his shoulder from his grip, Josh takes the window seat and waits for Billy to make him move, though Billy just takes a quiet seat next to him, leaving him free to mash his face against the window as the city rolls by.

“Look,” Josh says later without realizing, and he’s turned to Billy before he can stop himself. He expects Billy to be frowning like usual, or whatever it is he does, but he’s not. There’s a grin on his face as his eyes follow Josh’s pointing finger out the window where there’s a funeral procession marching up the street, trumpets and trombones blaring, the second line in full, raucous swing. Still with his grin, which makes him seem not nearly as tough, Billy glances down to him, and something about it makes Josh grin back.


	3. It's Too Late as We're Walking By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well two days after deadline isn't so bad, all things considered. Special thanks goes to Postmodern Jukebox and their rendition of "Don't Look Back in Anger" that's pushed through a lot of what we have for this story and got me back on track.
> 
> Also, when you mess up "Dairy Queen" and write "Diary Queen" instead, it sounds like you have a bad Gossip Girl knockoff.

**1988**

Fame came to New Orleans early, and with the city’s language, its food, its debauchery, quickly made a home. Joining in the bit of fame is New Orleans’s architecture from French Quarter balconies to narrow shotgun houses—and the cities of the dead. There are parades into and out of these cities, just as there are parades over every other inch of New Orleans, and tourists come to ogle the mourners marching. They walk amongst the crypts and mausoleums, taking pictures of the dead they’ve never known. It’s disrespectful, Goodnight thinks, but he has half a mind to pay people to take pictures of this tomb. He’ll put up banners and ribbons and holler until his throat is hoarse. He’ll turn this place into a goddamn circus, and it’ll be the respect they deserve.

How long he’s been standing in front of it, he has no idea, but it’s long enough that he’s memorized the dates of everyone interred in this Robicheaux tomb. There is Great-Grandma Georgine, who had lived a hundred years and terrorized his mother for a third of them; Great-Grandma Georgine’s husband Gaspard, who died long before he could witness her terror; Grandma Patrice, who had died from Great-Grandma Georgine’s terror; and at the bottom, most recently added, the tomb reads, _Major Augustin J. Robicheaux, 1922-1986,_ and _Varina Delacroix Robicheaux, 1935-1986._

“I feel a little duped, Mama,” Goodnight says when he finally swallows the lump in his throat because if he cries, he has no doubt that his father will come straight out of the crypt and strangle him for being such a disappointment to the Robicheaux name. Men don’t cry, and that’s the whole reason why he left in the first place, wasn’t it? To become a man? Fat lot of good it did.

“Actually, I feel very duped. You sent a kid off to war, and now here I am. Alone. Because you went and died on me, which I’m not convinced wasn’t on purpose, it’s just the sort of petty thing you would do, Mama, die when I couldn’t come to the funeral just to make me feel bad. And it’s not like you can convince me otherwise now.

“I’m done trying to please you. It’s all I ever tried to do, and look where it got me. I’m going to go to school—which is what I wanted to do, not that you ever asked—for a long time, and maybe I’ll just stay there for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll leave when the money runs out and sleep on the streets and have mixed babies. How about that?”

Maybe it would be more satisfying if his father turned his cool, Robicheaux-blue eyes on him. Maybe it would be more satisfying if his mother brushed at imaginary flyaways and said that he would do no such common thing, her shoulders straightening as though preparing for a fight, small as she was; small women tend to be the most frightening creatures on the planet, and Goodnight has long since accepted this is due to his mother.

As it is, nothing happens. There’s no sign of his father, rigid in every sense, disdain dripping from his being, or his dainty belle of a mother to look down her dainty nose at him. Standing in front of the crypt, jabbering away to parents who couldn’t be less interested, his face red from the strain it takes to keep as impassive as possible, Goodnight can only be glad there’s no one around because he must look positively crazy.

Although, hell, he knows he is.

**2006**

Irish blood and Gulf Coast summers make for a roasted mess, Josh can feel it. He probably looks like a lobster, steaming and everything. No matter how much sunscreen Billy had insisted he put on before leaving the house, and even now that the sun has gone down, he can feel the heat radiating from his face, off his arms. It’ll hurt in the morning—it’s possible it already hurts now—but it’s hard to care when he’s landed on what he’s sure is an earthly heaven.

Punctuated only by the announcers and the occasional sharp crack of wooden bats, there’s a dull hum that keeps him from hearing anything Billy says to him, and the guy behind him might have sloshed beer down his back, and his legs stick to the hard plastic of the seats whenever he dares try to peel them off, but he’s never seen anything half as exciting as when the guy hit the ball so hard it cracked his bat, or when the guy at the back of their field jumped high enough to catch the ball going over the wall, or when the coaches got into that fight.

It’s the greatest day of his life.

On the field, Josh watches the pitcher jerk his head once in disagreement, then once more as he settles himself for the windup. He could do that, he just knows it; not the neighborhood-style, anything-goes baseball, but _this,_ the real thing. He could slide, he could pitch guys out, he could hit the ball over the fence. He’d be ok with permanently looking like a lobster if it meant he could play.

Knocking his against his knee, Billy draws him from his daydream and holds out his fist. Josh takes the handful of peanuts Billy offers him, and Billy returns to his task of shelling his bag instead of watching the game. He doesn’t seem to be having the greatest day of his life, but he’s being nice Billy anyway, so it’s fine. At least he’s getting peanuts out of it, and Billy was only too happy to go after ice cream. Twice.

“What the—do you need these,” Goodnight shouts from Josh’s other side over the booing of the crowd, shaking the glasses around his neck at the umpire, and Billy catches Josh’s eye with a smirk. Most of Billy’s amusement seems to be coming from Goodnight, who is possibly more into the game than Josh is, and who flops back into his seat and rubs the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh, muttering under his breath. Maybe Billy’s amusement is at the wrong thing, but it isn’t unwarranted.

With another smirk at Josh, Billy reaches behind him to let his arm rest on the back of his seat, his hand finding its way to Goodnight’s neck. He doesn’t move, just keeps his arm slung across the seat and his hand on Goodnight’s neck, and Goodnight glances first at Billy, long enough to lose his frustration, then down to Josh with his crooked smile.

Josh is grinning back before he realizes what he’s doing. But whatever. They’re weird. They’re nice. He’s having a good time.

Calmer now with Billy’s hand on him, Goodnight quiets down in his seat. Josh tries not to think about it when he leans back in his own seat against Billy’s arm and waits for Billy to move it, but he doesn’t. He cracks another peanut with his free hand and passes it to Josh.

This is definitely the greatest day of his life. 

* * *

“Why don’t you ever let me drive,” Goodnight asks as they turn off St. Charles onto Jackson Avenue.

“Because people here don’t believe in crosswalks and you don’t believe in brakes,” Billy says, and Goodnight harrumphs, wondering if Billy’s grudge is real or just for the sake of having one. Billy harrumphs back. “On our first date, I thought, ‘this is nice, too bad we won’t live to have another.’”

With a laugh, Goodnight settles back into his seat, folding his hands on his stomach. It’s quite possible that he hadn’t been cleared to drive yet the first day he and Billy had gone out, and it was only after he noticed Billy flattened against his seat with a grip tight enough to break the door handle that he realized Billy probably should have driven. “Fair enough on that one, but in my defense, I was only trying to impress you.”

“Oh, I was impressed by _something_ ,” Billy says, and Goodnight assumes that something was not his charisma or wit. But Billy laughs too, so easy and bright, his smile just on the charming side of goofy. He’s in a good mood. A really good mood. It suits him.

Even through the ruckus of the garage door opening and Jack’s excitement that they’re home, Josh is still knocked out when Billy turns off the car, sprawled across the backseat, his head bent at such an awkward angle that his mouth falls open. At least he’s sleeping well, which is quite the rare occurrence. And it seems like such a rare occurrence that Goodnight doesn’t want to wake him, but Billy is already focused on letting Jack into the yard, so the task falls to Goodnight. Calling Josh’s name, he bats at him as he gets out of his seat, and when that leads to no avail, he reaches into the backseat to shake him, still with no sign of waking. With a sigh that borders on more of a huff, Goodnight lays down his seat.

When he pulls Josh out, he doesn’t fully realize what he’s going, but then there’s a physical weight on his shoulder that doesn’t feel as new as it should. In fact, it feels terribly familiar, a body slung over his shoulder, even if this body is more than a hundred pounds lighter and not dying, even if he won’t walk away from this covered in blood. Goodnight tries to focus on that, on the lack of weight, on the slow and gentle breathing at his neck, on counting every step in the house on New Orlean’s Jackson Avenue where he lives with Billy, into the room that is not his room anymore. As if it ever really was.

“Nighm—om,” Josh slurs when his head hits the pillow, eyes never opening, so he isn’t awake to see Goodnight freeze, one hand still trying to tug off his shoe. He didn’t hear that. He’ll swear he didn’t hear that all the way to the tomb, except he did, and now it’s ringing his ears and closing his throat and blurring his vision. He tugs off both shoes less gracefully than he’d been trying and isn’t anywhere close to quiet when he closes the door behind him.

When Goodnight comes into the kitchen, Billy is scribbling something onto a piece of paper by the light over the stove, the home phone pressed between his ear and shoulder like he’s trying to crush it. If he notices Goodnight, he gives no indication, allowing Goodnight to wipe at his eyes so that he doesn’t see; even now, after so many years of it just being Billy in the house with him, it’s still a habit to hide that part of himself. Though it’s hard to pay much attention to that when Billy is so ensnared in his conversation. “You said Erato—yes, I know where that is...

tomorrow... no, we’ll get him dinner...about seven? That’s fine.”

Setting down the pen, Billy lets out one of his inaudible sighs, eyes closed, and listens to whoever is on the other line with enough patience to make Goodnight glad there’s a telephone between them. “No, it’s fine—it’s _fine._ We’ll take him. Yeah. Bye.”

His eyes are still closed when he hangs up the phone, and he stays like that for a moment, elbows leaned on the counter, jaw tight, clinging to his unending control. There’s no sign of startle when he opens his eyes to find Goodnight standing in the doorway. He’d known the whole time that he was there.

“Who was that,” Goodnight asks, even though he has a sinking feeling that he already knows. There’s only one reason why they’d be talking about going to Erato Street.

“Sam,” Billy says, finally clenching his jaw tight enough to return to impassive. “Maggie’s out tomorrow.”

Goodnight nods. They’d put on a good charade for their _few days,_ and the sudden void that’s hit is exactly what he knows Billy was afraid of. But it’ll be fine. Classes start back in a few weeks for both Josh and himself. As for Billy, he’s been frantic over finding staff to cover for him, feels like he’s abandoned them to a rush of angry summer tourists, and now he can buckle down for the endless festivals coming in the fall. It’ll be fine, but Goodnight finds himself saying, “So that’s that.”

“That’s that,” Billy repeats with no small amount of mocking.

**1988**

If Billy hadn’t opened his restaurant in New Orleans, he wouldn’t have had a bar. He’d rather wait tables for the entire week than serve more alcohol to drunkards, or really serve drunkards at all. The thing is, he’d opened in New Orleans, and there is no such thing as a dry restaurant in the city, so gritting his teeth and doing his best to make an old-fashioned bar as posh as possible, he’d hired a few bartenders with the idea that he’d never have to deal with it.

Except for when two are home for the summer and the others can’t come in for various reasons, and then he’s stuck at the bar he didn’t want.

So far, it’s been quiet; a Wednesday, and still too early for any real raucousness, and Billy’s shifting through the stock, thinking if his bartenders weren’t so quick and if this was more of his domain, he’d reorganize the whole thing. Still, he can’t help but rearrange the glasses so they at least fit better, which is where his attention is when a stool scrapes across the floor. He turns, just as someone is saying, “Sazerac...oh.”

_Oh_ is right. Somehow _oh_ has neither described a situation more aptly or been so underwhelming. In the few weeks since, Billy had all but forgotten that one incident and the man he wouldn’t be buying dinner, yet here he is, ordering a Sazerac with a finesse that seems somehow unfitting. There’s an uncomfortable beat where Billy stands stupidly in front of him and he blinks stupidly back before Billy can move, mentally repeating the recipe to himself. Ice, sugar cube, bitters; add the bourbon—no, crush the sugar first. Does it need a lemon? He adds a lemon anyway because he likes the way it looks.

Sliding the glass across the bar, the man meets Billy’s eyes with a jerk of his head. If he had been beautiful before, there isn’t a description appropriate now that the fatigues have been traded for a button-up and vest even in the height of summer, hair grown out just enough that the ends brush over his collar. Tonight, there are no tears when he takes the first sip of the New Orleans staple, but rather a lopsided smile that Billy fights the urge to turn his back on, afraid his neck is visibly burning.

“I’d say the lemon was the right touch,” he says when he lowers the glass, that lopsided smile revealing all that needs to be said about the lemon. Billy’s neck feels hot enough to set his collar on fire. “Name’s Robicheaux. Ellis—Goodnight Robicheaux.”

It comes out stuttering and uncertain, and while Billy isn’t sure whether Robicheaux is speaking to Ellis or if all of that is his name, he knows it’s wrong when he asks, “Are you sure?”

“I am, sad as it is. Goodnight Robicheaux’s my name.” And to think he thought he’d had it bad with Rocks. To think this man couldn’t make any more of an impression. Damn him; Goodnight’s a name he’d be hard-pressed to forget if he tried.

“Billy—”

“Rocks,” Goodnight finishes, and then nearly finishes his drink in the next swig, his own neck going red, sending Billy back to his stupid blinking. Is he not the only one hard-pressed to forget?

His whole life, Billy’s grabbed every passing opportunity and hoped it took him somewhere good, and for the most part, it’s worked; odd jobs bought him his way out of California, sleepless nights and too many burnt fingers gave him the right connections in New York, and connections in New York landed him in New Orleans. And his restaurant, this city—he couldn’t have asked for anything better. Now, it’s a Wednesday and quiet, still too early for a real dinner rush, not that there would be much of one since it is the middle of the week, and the only person here is someone he’d been unlikely to see again but who had remembered his name anyway.

Billy hopes he doesn’t look stereotypical when he leans against the bar.

  **2006**

Whatever Goodnight and Billy made him put on his arms and face makes him smell like he showered in cologne and pool water.

Josh tries to ignore the smell and rubs behind Jack’s ears. The puppy lays with his head in Josh’s lap, his tail lazily thumping on the porch whenever Josh looks him in the eye, and Josh wonders if he knows this is goodbye. No more fetches or nose licks or walks around the neighborhood. He won’t watch Jack trip over his own feet and go tumbling down the stairs every day. Jack is going to stay here with Goodnight and Billy, and Josh is going home.

Maybe Goodnight and Billy will let him keep him. Except Jack would be better off here, where the food is good and the house is cool and...where Goodnight and Billy are.

With no one around except Jack—who will definitely be missed—Josh doesn’t suppress his sigh. He might miss them in a few days when his mom is making Chef Boyardee for the fourth night in a row and she hasn’t done laundry in a while, and he might even miss talking to Goodnight and Billy because his mom never has anything to say. He could tell her that he was on fire for real and probably get the same response from her as he would Jack.

At the moment, they’re waiting on Goodnight to get back from whatever errand he just had to run so that they can eat and then walk to Sucré. His mom might like Sucré. He thinks she likes sugar, not that he really knows because she never says anything and never brings any home either, but she seemed to like Dairy Queen. Maybe they can walk there one day when she isn’t busy. And maybe they can meet Goodnight and Billy there, and they’ll have Jack with them. Or something. Maybe.

At least his mom won’t be in jail anymore.

* * *

One of the things Goodnight has always loved about New Orleans is how everything blends and bleeds together; the sun has hardly risen when suits go parading into Business District offices, while one block over, the first signs of Quarter life are just beginning to stir, people creeping onto Spanish balconies to watch their part of the city come to life over the rim of a coffee mug. Now, as the car eases down the oak-lined street, the sprawling mansions fade into three-story buildings that aren’t nearly as beautiful as the Garden District, all dark brick and dim windows that overlook dead grass outside.

Goodnight’s chest fills with something heavy—or heavier. New Orleans runs through his blood and spirit; he knows there’s no leaving because of it, and he knows he’s not the only one like this. If only others could love all of New Orleans.

Though he knows this side has always been here, Goodnight tells himself it was the storm that did this, turned the city upside down and put lives on display in the streets. He and Billy had been lucky during the storm, but almost a year ago, there had been boats instead of cars going up and down the flooded streets in search of people stranded on any surface above the water.

At the moment, Billy is grinning gently into the rear-view mirror and speaking only enough to prompt Joshua onwards; he’s grinning, but Goodnight can tell by the grip on the steering wheel that it’s his brave face. And as for Goodnight—he may as well be waving down a boat from the roof. Just a few days of what could have been and isn’t.

Billy glances at him from the corner of his eye and then winds their fingers together, and Goodnight squeezes to let him know he’s hanging on. It’s not a boat, but he knows better than not to take what he gets.

“Turn here,” Billy asks, flicking on the turn signal before he has an answer.

“Yeah, sure.” At the raise of Billy’s brows in the mirror, Joshua shrugs and says, “I really haven’t known where we are for like, five miles now.”

“We’ve only gone a half,” Billy says, a smile again creeping at his lips. He glances to Goodnight, who nods, the GPS in his lap conforming the next road is the right one. And the final one.

The neighborhood is as inherently New Orleans as the Quarter itself, and as such, Goodnight loves it as much as he loves his own Jackson Avenue. But it isn’t as pretty, isn’t as careless as other parts of the city, so it goes overlooked until others want to start pointing fingers. Why are people afraid of New Orleans, why is there such a stigma? Because of places like this, they say, and Goodnight wishes he could put his old talents to use again. No, it’s because of people like you who just don’t care.

Yet as Billy brings the car to a stop Goodnight looks out his window to the beaten shotgun, he can’t help but wonder if it really, truly does matter. He had cared. Billy had cared. They had cared, and they had tried, and still they’re here.

Goodnight holds open Josh’s door while he clambers out, and it’s only when he closes the door that he realizes how tightly he’d been gripping it. Stretching his fingers, he ignores it and turns his focus to Josh and Billy, who kneels down to be on his level.

“Do you remember what we said?”

“You’ll take real good care of Jack, your numbers for home and work are on the paper, and call if I need anything.”

“What else?”

“And your door is open anytime,” Josh says after a moment’s thought, his face lighting up and bringing a subsequent smile to Billy, then Goodnight as well. Goodnight swallows hard and pretends it doesn’t hurt when Billy wraps his arms around Josh, or when the boy’s arms thread behind his neck, pretends it isn’t Billy saying goodbye because that’s something Billy never does.

Their attention is cut by the creaking of the glass door, and then a woman is standing on the front porch, barefoot, long curls gnarled. She looks older now, Goodnight notes, or perhaps not older but tired. Still though, with her wide green eyes looking like someone had just jumped at her and her arms folded tightly over her chest like she’s holding onto everything she has, all Goodnight sees is the same crying, fearful child.

“That’s my mom,” Joshua says, with less enthusiasm than Goodnight would have thought the situation warranted.

“Yes, it is,” Goodnight says, feeling rather than seeing Billy bristle like the overprotective mother hen that he is. He swallows hard again. Oh, the poor child.

With his smile plastered on precariously, Goodnight pulls his gaze away from Maggie to pass the duffel with Josh’s things to him and holds out his own arm. For all his reserve and desire for disinterest, he’s a surprisingly tactile child when he wants to be, and he presses into Goodnight’s side without hesitation.

“Make sure you give that envelope to your mom,” Goodnight says with one last pat to his shoulders, and giving a nod of his head, Josh is bouncing up the sidewalk, away from them and towards Maggie, who lets go of herself long enough to pull him close. She offers him a smile, or at least what constitutes as one from her, unconfident and unpracticed, and whatever she says makes him grin back in his goofy way.

As Maggie holds open the door, Josh slips inside, into an unlit disgrace, while she lingers on the front stoop. She looks somewhere next to Goodnight, probably to Billy where she will only bitter resolve, and finally over to Goodnight. A beat, then she offers him that same unpracticed smile that he recalls so well and raises her arm just enough for a wave.

Billy is in the car before Goodnight can raise his hand to return the gesture.

* * *

Josh supposes his mom is beautiful, and if she isn’t, she at least used to be. He figures she must have been soft at one time, with her long gold curls and trace of freckles just across her nose, a smile that can’t really be called a smile when it never passes through her eyes, and sometimes, like now, when she’s conscious and alert, she makes him think of the setting sun. While he isn’t exactly sure what constitutes old or not, Josh guesses she’s too young not to be soft. He’s never been exactly sure just how old his mom is because he’s never asked and she has a face that looks almost youthful but a way of moving that suggests an aged weariness.

She moves like that now as she goes about the kitchen, her back to him, never once turning to face him. Balancing his chair on two legs, Josh ignores that, half expecting her to turn around with perfect words once he’s finished speaking because that’s what Billy had done.

“They got a puppy named Jack that always falls down the stairs, and every time, Goody always fusses about it even though he just shakes himself off and never gets hurt. And they have like ten bedrooms and a balcony that goes all around the house, and we went to the movies like every week, and they have an ice cream store right down the street, and Billy can cook real good and he can make whatever you want, and—Mama, he can make fried chicken! He doesn’t have to buy it or anything, he can make it,” Joshua exclaims, pushing back on the table so hard that he nearly tips his chair completely over. The thud it makes returning to four legs earns him half a glance over her shoulder from Maggie.

“They’re real nice,” he says when she doesn’t make any comment. Of course she doesn’t. She never says anything.

He leans his chin into his palm and watches as she freezes suddenly. After a moment, she turns to face him, a forced, pained smile on her lips, tears falling down her cheeks just as quietly as she ever is. She nods and for once, pressing a hand to her mouth, says, “I know, baby. I know.”

* * *

For once it’s silent in the green house off Cadiz Street—or not silent, but quiet, thanks to the emptiness; Papá won’t be home for the rest of his life, probably, and at the rate they’re going, Rafael and Adrian won’t be either, which is bad enough now that Tulio is gone. Since it’s Friday and his mamá doesn’t work the weekends, Alejo assumes she’s probably in Papá’s recliner downstairs with _Lingo_ or _The $10,000 Pyramid_ reruns playing on the television as she watches the clock, muttering over and over, “ _Yo quiero buenos chicos_.”

Which, with his brothers gone, leaves him with the room to himself. He and Mamá had eaten dinner and watched _Jeopardy!_ before he’d told her he was tired and slipped upstairs to the vacant room; not that he would have minded watching the Game Show Network with her, but his book had been calling for too long now, and even on his third read, he was powerless to it.

_‘“I wish it need not have happened in my time,’ said Frodo._

_‘"So do I,’ said Gandalf, ‘and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”’_

_Go, Frodo,_ Alejo thinks, urging Frodo on his journey without any knowledge of what happens after the Fellowship disbands. He’d curse Tulio for only giving him the first book if he wasn’t so grateful for it.

“ _Besa mi culo, puto,”_ someone snaps from the hall, and Alejo’s blood freezes. He’d been so caught up his book that he hadn’t heard them come in. How long could he—the clock reads that it’s just now nearing nine, and they have no right to pull surprises by being home this early. Alejo scrambles for the lamp while simultaneously trying to shove his book under the pillow, and he just manages to flick the switch as the door opens; Rafael mutters something about the little bastard, and the overhead light clicks on.

When their eyes adjust, Alejo finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed while his brothers squint at him in the doorway, more out of suspicion than the light. He keeps his eyes on them, rooted in place, doing his best to keep everything to himself. Adrian is the first to move, sliding past Rafael until he stands in front of Alejo, whose heart threatens to beat so fast it shoots into his throat. They make a dangerous pair and move together as one, Rafael with only the brains to know something is amiss, but Adrian is perfectly discerning and clever enough to wield Rafael’s bulk to his advantage.

Giving his brother no break, Adrian scowls at Alejo then glances down at the pillow, wadded into ball unfit for sleeping. Alejo clenches his jaw. His emotions are never hidden, and nothing he could do would fool Adrian, who, with a catlike grin, asks, “What’re you hiding?”

“Nothing,” Alejo starts to say, but gets only half of it out before Adrian’s knocked him over and Rafael’s snatched the pillow away, his fat, stupid fingers bending the pages. “Give it back, Rafa!”

“Is this your bedtime story,” Adrian coos while Rafael sneers. “Do you want us to read it to you and tuck you in too?”

“Didn’t know you could read,” Alejo snaps back in a flash of anger, and he’d regret it if they weren’t pawing at his last birthday present from Tulio.

“Looks like our baby is finally growing a pair,” Rafael snickers. He turns for the slightest moment to laugh at Adrian, who scowls back, and Alejo takes advantage of their distraction, making a lunge for his brother no matter how hopeless he knows it is. He manages to clap Rafael upside the head, but Rafael only claps back harder. Really it’s more of a punch than a clap, and Alejo recoils as his eyes sting, jaw aching.

He looks pitiful, he knows, sitting on the bed with a scowl and tears in his eyes, failing miserably at looking mean, but it’s so much effort to be able to do even that. It’s worse now that Adrian and Rafael can run unchecked by their father and Tulio, and Alejo misses them—or he misses Tulio, at least. He misses Tulio teaching him to play the guitar and his quiet companionship, the surprise visits when Tulio actually spent the night at home, the way Tulio had said, “You’re funny, _nene_ , but you’re all right.”

Adrian scoffs at him, then tosses the book, overshooting so that it hits the wall and falls onto the other side of the bed. _El rey de Roma_ their mamá calls him, and Alejo never really understands it until moments like these when Adrian is standing over him with a snarl to make the devil quake and a brute squad at his heels. Rafael following suite, Adrian gives one final sneer and turns to his side of the room.

Alejo waits for him to turn off the light before he wipes his eyes and picks up the book. At least it’s still intact.

**1997**

Billy lets the car idle for far too long before he finally finds the strength to turn off the engine. It's just past seven on a Thursday, which means Goodnight should be home because Mondays and Thursdays are his short days at school, and Billy is finally going to face him. When he slips his key into the lock, there's a flame of comfort that he is still able to do, even though part of him says Goodnight should have changed the locks eight days ago, and that's being generous, considering Billy hasn't seen him in ten—and he's been counting.

He makes sure to make as much racket as possible as he opens the door and steps inside, waiting with his heart beating its way from his chest for Goodnight to peek around the corner to see what he could be doing. He waits for Goodnight to come around the corner and tell him, “Billy, cher, I’d really you rather didn't wake the dead in this house,” but nothing happens. He hangs his coat and turns around to a hall just as empty as when he entered.

“Goody,” he starts to call, but it dies in his throat; instead, he bites his lip and shuffles down the hall past an empty living room and office, panic rising with every footstep that echoes in the stillness. There's no one in the kitchen, no one in their bedroom, no one in _that room._ The house is empty and it's all Billy's fault.

Alone in the kitchen, Billy scrubs his face with his hands. He'd been ready to pass out from exhaustion before he'd left the restaurant, and now it’s as if his every sense is on hyperdrive, noting the complete silence and solitude, the kitchen that's just as pristine as they'd left it ten days ago. Alone in the kitchen, Billy looks around the room and lets the weight settle around him. 

It's his fault he's alone, he knows. He’d made the suggestion, and Goodnight, ever indulgent, had bent to his wills and whims like always. Billy had wanted it because he’d wanted everything with Goodnight.

And now he has nothing.

Alone in the kitchen, Billy pulls out one of the stools at the island to sit in the silence he’s created.

* * *

The first thing Goodnight sees when he turns onto the street is Billy’s car in the driveway. He drives around the block four times, waiting to see if Billy slips out again, but the fifth time he turns down the street, he loses any control he might have. If Billy’s finally done with him, better to know sooner than to keep this up.

Billy’s coat is on the rack, and Goodnight hangs his next to it like usual. It looks nice like that, he thinks, their coats hanging side by side next to the door. He lets his fingers trail over Billy’s sleeve but resists the urge to bring it to his face. Unlike he’d expected, there’s no sound upstairs to suggest Billy is packing his things, and Goodnight thinks that maybe it’s a good sign. At least, maybe it’s a sign that Billy isn’t going to leave him alone in this goddamned house and that Goodnight won’t have to explain to Sam through the bars why he’d burned the thing to the ground.

He waits another moment, listening. If Billy isn’t upstairs, there’s only one other place he would be.

Goodnight can tell Billy knows he’s there by the way he tenses and swallows hard. There’s a dozen feet between them that might as well be an ocean. This is the part he’s been waiting ten days for, ever since Billy grew silent at the hospital. This is the part where Billy looks at him with none of the familiar affection in his eyes, no hint of a smile on his face, none of the warmth Goodnight knows him for, the part where Billy says he’s already packed up all his things and he leaves Goodnight’s coat alone on the rack and walks out the door.

But when Billy finally raises his head, so slowly it’s like he hardly has the strength to do so, his face isn’t hard, his eyes aren’t cold—they’re bloodshot and tired and watering, the corners of his mouth downturned and quivering. He opens his mouth as though to say something, but with a shake of his head, he closes it and drops his face just as quickly.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Goodnight says and regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but he’s so desperate to break the silence. Billy flinches like he’s been struck, glancing back up with a sight Goodnight thought he’d go his whole life without.

There are tears falling from Billy’s eyes, leaving streaks down his cheeks as he gasps Goodnight’s name, remaining seated on the stool with tears dripping onto the counter, and when his hands go to his eyes, desperate to hide the sight from the world as his shoulders shake, Goodnight’s own throat tightens. Ready for Billy to push him away, Goodnight moves towards Billy without realizing, but Billy moves for him too, arms outstretched, palms up, melting into Goodnight’s hold.

“I’m sorry, Goody, I’m—” And then he loses all composure, a sob cutting off his apology, his hands clutching Goodnight to him. If he’s speaking any language, it’s not one Goodnight knows.

**2006**

When a pair of hands land on his shoulder, Goodnight jumps hard enough that he nearly drops his coffee mug onto his lap. The deep chuckle that follows tells him who it is, as if he didn’t know from the way the hands curl around his shoulders, thumbs kneading into his back. “You walk like a cat, cher, did you know that?”

“I’ve been told. What’s this,” Billy ask with a hum, leaning closer to Goodnight’s computer. Goodnight turns his head just enough to see more than a blur of Billy, his beard hitting Billy’s cheek and making him flinch with a grin, turning to face Goodnight as well. One brow arches in question at the undoubtedly giddy expression on Goodnight’s face. “Something good?”

“Finally got the go-ahead for the New Orleans lit class I’ve been wanting,” Goodnight says. There’s a rush of satisfaction and warmth at the way Billy’s face lights up for him, and it makes him glad he’d waited to tell Billy at home instead of calling him from his office.

“For the fall?”

“Spring. Upper-level too, so it should weed out most of the hoopleheads. I’m sure it helps that there’s a new professor they can dump a few beginning comps onto, but I’d like to believe they liked how well I taught it.” 

“So how many Toole quotes should I expect to hear?”

“Hey, I really don't have the time to discuss the errors of your value judgements,” Goodnight says in mock contempt as Billy lets loose an easy laugh, his head tipped back in that way that makes Goodnight want to laugh too, caught off guard that Billy, of course, retained Toole. “I have a syllabus to write, thank you very much.”

Billy quiets then, and Goodnight finally spins his desk chair to face Billy fully. Traces of laughter still linger, caught behind hesitation, and before Goodnight can take hold of the hand he reaches for, Billy says quickly, “I was thinking we could go out, just the two of us. Three Sheets has that band we liked after trivia tonight.”

“Mr. Rocks, is this a date,” Goodnight teases a little reluctantly; they’ve long since abandoned the nerves in their relationship, even after their _readjustment_ , as Goodnight would call it, if he ever called it anything, but he can’t deny the tumble Billy sends his stomach into.

Slapping away Goodnight’s hand, Billy rolls his eyes in his amused way and says, “Not if you’re going to be smug about it, it’s not. But…we haven’t gone out alone since the beginning of summer.”

_I miss you,_ Billy is trying to say. _I miss you, and I want you, and you know I’m not good at this._

Goodnight and Billy don’t speak the same language exactly. Billy gets his French mixed up, and it was a quick discovery that Goodnight should not attempt Korean; Goodnight waxes poetic about litter in the streets, and Billy nods in appreciation. But Goodnight hears him now, and he understands.

“Give me ten minutes and we can leave,” Goodnight says, reaching for Billy’s hand again. “You’re home early enough we can walk, if you’d like.”

This time Billy curls his fingers around Goodnight’s with a smile that melts away his hesitancy.

* * *

“You drank too much tonight,” Goodnight says.

Billy steps out of their bathroom to find him sitting on Billy’s side of the bed, his feet swinging back and forth in tandem over the edge. He looks like a kid, Billy thinks, face easy and flushed. “I had one. Which you drank part of.”

“Marry me,” Goodnight says then in lieu of an appropriate response, as he does once every few months. Billy looks at him blankly and returns to the bathroom. “You want to go somewhere over the semester break, we can go to Massachusetts for the week, marry on a Wednesday, spend the rest of the week in a cottage on the cape.”

Squeezing toothpaste onto his brush, Billy tries his hardest to ignore him, but Goodnight has a knack of making himself noticed that Billy only assumes is in his blood.

After so long, they can’t call themselves casual even without a ring on their fingers. Eighteen years they’ve spent together, first bumping into each other in the apartment on Dumaine, then reviving this house where they have no earthly explanation for bumping into each other. On the busy days when Billy is short on staff, Goodnight volunteers to host on the condition that he be called the house sommelier. Billy records the grades when Goodnight gets behind. Goodnight can tell when Billy’s had a bad day by the way he walks, and Billy knows that when Goodnight asks so offhandedly if Billy still loves him, it’s only because he’s not stooped so low as to beg for the reassurance. There’s no such thing as personal space with Goodnight, not where Billy is concerned, and in comparison to their earlier outing, he’d much rather have a night spent whispering, tucked together on the couch, because sweet nothings have never meant more to anyone than they do to Goodnight.

Spitting into the sink, Billy rinses his toothbrush and wonders exactly what would change. They could hang a new certificate in their office that doesn’t mean anything in their New Orleans home. They would file their taxes together, that would be new, except Billy already does both of theirs. Otherwise, they’d still go to sleep in the same bed and wake up to each other in the morning.

When he returns, Goodnight is still sitting on the edge of the bed and swinging his feet, waiting so expectantly for an answer he should already know. Billy can’t help himself when the corners of his lips twitch. Eighteen years, and Goodnight can still make his chest tight when he looks at him. It only tightens more at the smile Goodnight gives him when Billy takes his face in his hands, then again when Goodnight pulls him closer and lets Billy catch his lips in his own. As he does once every few months, Billy sighs, “We’re already married.”


	4. A Good Day for Moving Along

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is terrible, and that's all I have to say for why there was such a gap (not of my own free will) between this and the last chapter. But hey, now classes have started back, so I finally get a computer again and thankfully creative writing forces me to write every day.

**1995**

“You spend more money on gas driving to get these damn things than you do paying for them,” Billy says as they head for the counter. “I don’t know why you can’t just get a bag like a normal person.”

“Because, Billy, you know I love apples, but good golly, you look at them wrong and they spoil.”

“You just take a knife and cut off the spots. There’s nothing to it,” Billy says as Goodnight stops to reach for a cup of Fage yogurt, but he follows along when Billy keeps walking. Better that he does. Billy might actually have a few words for him if they leave with two apples _and_ overrated yogurt.

“What’s got you so foul,” Goodnight asks, just in time for Billy not to be able to respond without seeming like an ass in front of the checkout girl. “Excuse us, miss, we beg your pardon, but he’s just in a foul mood.”

“That’s all right,” she says in a slow drawl, green eyes flickering between Goodnight and Billy with a width that hints she’s waiting on a mood foul enough to make them hit her. Though if Billy’s hitting anyone, he thinks a knock upside the head could do Goodnight a bit more help. Honestly, driving across town every other day for two apples just so they don’t have spots—it’s exactly the kind of thing for Goodnight to do.

Billy loves him.

She picks up one of the apples with the same lack of speed as her voice, and when she can’t find whatever she’s looking for on it, she reaches for a binder next to the register and starts to thumb through the pages. Billy takes a deep breath. There’s no hurry, nowhere he has to be, but if this girl could maybe move a little faster than the Antarctic ice sheet, that would be fantastic—and if he could remember he’s frustrated with Goodnight and his stupid apples instead of her.

Next to him, though, Goodnight inspects the racks of gum and mints, completely unfazed by it all, and this time when Billy takes a deep breath, he’s not nearly as ready to chop off a finger or two of anyone nearby. There’s no reason to be so ruffled besides the fact he doesn’t understand why Goodnight won’t just buy the whole bag. They’re going to go back to the house that still echoes when they walk through, and tonight they’ll sit down in the living room that’s still just a couch and television on the floor, and Goodnight will eat his sliced apples and caramel while they watch _Murder, She Wrote,_ just like every other week.

Although, if she could move any faster, he’d be even happier.

She keys in the wrong code instead. Two apricots ring up, and her fingers twitch as she looks at the screen, bottom lip disappearing between her teeth before moving in what Billy thinks is a silent apology. For a moment, he wonders if perhaps he’d scared her into her mistake because although he doesn’t think he’s frightening in the least, he’s heard plenty of rumors of how he can come off to people. Perhaps he should apologize, explain that it’s not her fault he’s frustrated, it’s the idiot he’s with, who, if Billy didn’t love him so much, he’d beat over the head with his damn apples and show him spoiled for real.

But by the time he’s considered this, he snaps back to reality to find Goodnight slowly reading out the code to her number-by-number, which he checks over the tops of his glasses once she’s finished. “Well if it’s still not right, I think it’s a divine sign that maybe Billy here is right and I should get the whole bag, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m sorry,” she says in response, which Goodnight’s blinking means wasn’t the right response, but he ignores it in that trained, graceful way.

 “Oh, no, thank you. Thank you kindly—” Goodnight’s eyes go over his glasses again as he takes in her nametag “—Margaret.”

**2006**

If it gets any hotter, Josh is going to go to school with wet clothes and smelling worse than the time Jack got into the water hose, and won’t that just be a fantastic first day. Not that any first day is good. Or really any school day for that matter.

He’s sitting on the front stoop and sweating enough to fill buckets, it feels like; it’s no cooler in the house, so he and his mom are sitting on the front stoop to wait on the bus that doesn’t seem like it’s ever coming. Maybe it’s underwater like they were last year. Maybe it just got lost. He wouldn’t be disappointed either way unless they have to go back to the Dome.

“Show me the key,” his mom says. She must be feeling chatty today because it’s the third time this morning she’s had him show her the stupid key. Without responding, Josh unzips the front pocket of his backpack—new, thanks to Goodnight’s last-minute errand, just like his shirt and shorts and shoes are all new—and fishes around until he finds the little piece of metal that feels weird between his fingers. Smells weird too.

“Remember to not take it out today, ok? And go straight inside and lock the door when you get home. Don’t come out, ok? And don’t let anybody in.”

“I know,” Josh growls as he zips his backpack, which would have earned him a dirty look from Goodnight or Billy, but she’s been over this already and he swears it’s the most she’s ever said all at once. There’s no dirty look from her though because she never gives anyone a dirty look, just sits there as though she expects it.

The neighborhood is quiet now, just as it usually is in the mornings, when the hoodlums have finally found a bed and the kids haven’t come out to play. But Josh guesses that’s how it’ll be for a while now, at least until Christmas, because now they’re stuck at school again. If another hurricane wants to come through this year, that would be fine. Just a little one though. Just enough to make them cancel school but not make them go back to the Dome. He’d like his life to be normal for once, as long as normal excludes school.

Unfortunately, it’s not a hurricane that comes rumbling up the road.  

“Bye, Mom,” he says, and then he turns for the bus before she can tell him to stay inside again.

* * *

The thing about Billy going back to spending more time at the restaurant is that Goodnight doesn’t have to feel guilty about the increase in his own intake of books he reads and coffee he drinks.

It’s a Saturday, leaving him completely free without the restraints of classes or appointments or Billy, so after a bit of housework and a late lunch, he’d snapped on Jack’s leash and, slinging a pack onto his back, off they’d went towards Jackson Square for a bit of grading and people-watching. Until they’d walked past Goodnight’s favorite resale bookshop, and then they’d taken a detour.

There’s something calming about the quiet of a bookstore that Goodnight doesn’t mind losing himself in, among the rustle of pages and soft tread of people in search of the next world to which they’ll escape. He doesn’t like the same quiet at home or his office, where the radio always plays to keep the quiet at bay, but in a bookstore...it’s fine. It’s peaceful.

Whiling away time that needs to be spent grading, he’s thumbing through a Cold War-era sci-fi novel that looks worth a laugh or two when from behind him, a small voice says, “Excuse me,” and he struggles to keep hold of his book. First Billy and now this; he must finally be going soft, though now he isn’t sure if it’s a good thing or not.

“Excuse me,” the small voice says again, and Goodnight turns to find a boy behind him, regarding Goodnight with quick, sharp eyes, his knees bent as though ready to dart away should Goodnight prove he was judged incorrectly. He has two books locked in a death grip like he half-expects Goodnight to take them from him. “How much are these with tax?”

He holds out both hands, and once he gets over the fact that this slip of a child is asking about tax, Goodnight turns over the books for the price tag. “It’ll be—oh—I’d say about seven dollars and a quarter or so.”

He retracts his book and bites his lip, those quick eyes blinking while he does his own calculations, and then his shoulders slump. He considers his finds. “What about just this one?”

“Little over three-and-a-half.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

He turns, then, and makes to leave, and Goodnight finds himself taking a few steps after him. Billy always says he’s going to get himself into trouble, the way he can’t let anyone well alone, but, well, what else is the benefit of having a cop friend? “Is there a problem?”

This time, it’s the boy’s turn to startle, glancing over his shoulder with something lingering  between disdain and distrust. “Need money to get home.”

“How much?”

“I have to take the Tchoupitoulas to Napoleon,” he says, repeating the information pointedly as if committing it to memory. “It’s a dollar twenty-five for a pass. All I’d have is a quarter.”

It’s all Goodnight can do not to let his jaw drop, and instead, he stands there blinking for a moment. How on this flooded earth did such a small child manage to make it this far just for a couple of books and not get himself killed? And since when did kids learn about taxes, or was the school system starting to teach something more useful? It’s just the type of absurdity he should expect from his life. Still, digging himself deeper into the absurdity and testing Billy’s theory that he really enjoys it, Goodnight asks, “Well, where’d you find this? Are you sure this is all they had?”

With one last thoughtful beating of his dark eyes, the boy turns and winds his way through the shelves, so lightly and silently that it’s no wonder Goodnight hadn't heard him sneak up. It’ll be the last time he turns his back on him, though, that’s for sure.

Goodnight follows him, not completely aware as he calculates the distance and lengths the boy went to just to get here. Four miles? Napoleon is a good way past the house, so it was at least four miles, and how does he know how to take the bus? Do all children know how to take the bus? It wasn’t until after he was discharged that he actually learned how public transportation worked, and that’s because he no longer had Linda to drive him. Although, if the kid’s counting quarters, he most likely doesn’t have a Linda. 

Lost in remembrance of his childhood housekeeper, Goodnight nearly walks over the boy, who stops suddenly in the middle of two towering shelves and glances up at him reproachfully, either from the near collision or just to his presence in general. But there, at first glance, stand stacks upon stacks of Tolkien, _The Silmarillion, The Father Christmas Letters, Miss Bliss…_ it’s either a dream or a nightmare.

“Well now look here,” Goodnight says, tugging a thick volume from a stack that threatens to topple on top of him. It’s a newer edition containing all of Middle Earth, more expensive than the one he’s trying to buy, but if he’d been so excited to see there were more of the book he needed, Goodnight expects that he’ll love this. “How about this one? It has the entire trilogy you’re wanting and its prequel.”

“All of them?” For the first time, he loses all unease as the ghost of a smile flits across his face, and Goodnight makes up his mind at that very moment. He can’t very well make sure he gets home without making it on a list of which he has no desire to be a part, but at least if the kid gets kidnapped, he’ll have a little entertainment.

“You want it?”

Those dark eyes narrow again, but his thin fingers twitch as though he longs to snatch it, and oh, what a delightful sight it is. He’d been that age once, and just as wrapped up in hobbits and elves, greasers and Socs, Mrs. Whatsit and Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which. He’d been happy in those worlds, when his was far gone and he was in a land of magic and adventure, removed from starched clothes and a shiny nose in a house that seemed intent on shrinking from enormity to suffocation. Kids these days have their own worlds they disappear into behind a screen, and while Goodnight acknowledges they’re still slipping away just as he once had, there’s something so reassuring in knowing that there are kids who are satisfied too with the rustle of pages.

“Come on,” Goodnight says, and after a moment where he’s most likely considering arguing, Goodnight hears the boy following him to the register.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Reaching for his wallet, Goodnight finds no cash—of course, plenty of money that’s never in his wallet—and catches the boy’s nod as he hands over his card. “Next time, use your money to take a streetcar down to the public library on St. Charles. Ask for Betty and tell her Ellis sent you to get a card, and she’ll get you fixed up right away. Don’t mind her fussing if she gets to it, just remind her Ellis sent you, hear?”

“Ms. Betty on St. Charles. Ellis sent me,” he repeats, something tinging on awe in his voice, but Goodnight knows a smartass when he hears one. Still, he can’t help but grin because the awe outweighs the sarcasm—and, perhaps, because that would have been him at one time too.

“And you know the best part? You don’t have to pay for a single thing.”

With an awe-filled, mumbled thanks, he takes the book from the counter, darting for the door as if he expects Goodnight to change his mind. He pauses outside long enough to pat Jack on the head, and then he’s gone, disappeared into the crowd for what Goodnight can only assume is the Tchoupitoulas line.

Absurdity, absurdity, absurdity. Goodnight’s life hinges on it.

**1996**

“You do realize,” Billy says, just to be an ass, “that even though you’re trying to get fresh apples, you’re just choosing from the same ones as last time. You’re not getting fresh ones. Just the ones that haven’t spoiled as fast.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a problem with my apples.” Goodnight doesn’t give him so much as a sideways glance, his attention focused solely on the apple he’s holding up to the light like he expects celestial guidance on freshness.

At least today they’re actually grocery shopping. Goodnight has inspected half of their buggy with the same precision as his apples—he spent the same amount of time picking out grapefruit as Billy did fetching the pasta and coffee—and the other half, Billy tossed in and started pushing away before Goodnight had the chance to check it. Still, it’s a good way to spend their Tuesday afternoon, together and out of their normal spheres. If they’re being a pain, it’s because they can and the other knows it but doesn’t really mind.

Goodnight finally puts a handful of apples in the buggy, away from everything he deems dangerous. Billy half hopes that one of them does bruise between here and the house, just to see what Goodnight would do. “What’s next?”

Billy glances at the list: chicken and wine, equally risky when given to Goodnight, but there is only so much wine to sort through at the grocery store. “Get a few bottles of red and meet me at the counter?” 

With only a nod of his head, Goodnight wanders off in search of his cheap wine, and Billy leaves him to peruse the deli. It’s not bad meat—not what he’d serve in the restaurant, but not bad either—but Goodnight would stand here all day for the sake of being persnickety, and probably call someone from the back for a second opinion. Take the one with the least amount of fat and be done with it.

When Billy turns the corner for the counter, the little blond checkout girl is smiling, or at least, he thinks she is. She’s got a funny way of smiling, but no one can’t not smile at Goodnight, who’s leaned against the counter in some sort of wild tale. Billy can’t help but inwardly roll his eyes. One of these days, he should have a talk with him about leaning against girls’ counters, but no one ever seems uncomfortable with him. It’s his superpower.

“And then—then she looked me right in the eye and meowed. I’ll tell you what, you’ve got a good deal over here, just about anybody’s running around out there in the Quarter. Tell her, Billy, about those people you get. Billy’s restaurant is in the Quarter, and oh my Lord, the things he’s seen.”

“There was a lady in a cow costume at the bar yesterday,” Billy says as he starts unloading the cart. She glances up as if to ask more, but the moment her eyes lock with Billy’s, her head dips down again as she grabs for can. It’s too late, though, and she knows it. Even if she hadn’t realized her mistake at first, it would be impossible not to realize it now as the chicken’s Styrofoam tray cracks in his white-knuckled grip. It had taken them half a year of weekly trips and story time with Goodnight before she’d finally looked them in the eye, and a few months more for her to smile. Maybe it makes sense now.

Goodnight had seen it too, judging from the glazed look in his otherwise unchanged face. He’ll be the one to do something stupid about it, which, really, is the more dangerous option, considering Goodnight could get away with murder without so much as a slap on the wrist. Not good for whoever did it, and it’s most definitely a someone; you only hide it if it’s a someone, not a something.

“Twenty-six fifty-three,” she says, swallowing hard.

“How’s that boy of yours,” Goodnight asks in response, just as all Billy’s change goes clattering on the tile. Which is better, really, now his hands are free to strangle the numbskull he accidentally took grocery shopping with him. Goodnight pays him no mind as he bends down to help pick them up. “What was his name again?”

“John.”

“John! That’s right, John. I knew that, didn’t I, Billy?” Goodnight better be glad their house is as big as it is, because he’s not getting out of it after this. “You still got him around?”

“Yeah. He’s good,” Maggie says, her voice tapering out until Billy must be imagining it. Tapping a few buttons, she rips the receipt and hands it to Billy. If she thinks that avoiding his gaze obscures her blushing and bruised face anymore, she’s sorely mistaken. Billy almost wishes she would look at him, not that he could really do anything; maybe it’s better that she doesn’t.

“You’ve got a real pretty smile, honey,” Goodnight says, suddenly stoic and earnest, watching her from over the tops of his glasses. “Try to keep it.”

Hoping no one notices, Billy pushes the buggy forward and lets his elbow brush hard against Goodnight’s back, wanting nothing more than to plop him in the buggy and wheel him away too, but Goodnight takes the hint. He sticks his finger back in his own pie. “You have a nice day.”

Goodnight doesn’t speak about his parents very much unless he’s cursing them under his breath, but Billy gets the impression they lived a life with their fingers in dozens of pies and no one’s in theirs, and it’s a life Goodnight would live without a well-intentioned second thought if Billy didn’t remind him to just mind his own damn business. Not that Billy doesn’t have a heart, it’s just that it’s not meant to be aired out in the open.

“Did you see—”

“Goody.”

**2006**

“Remember to go straight inside and don’t come out ‘til I’m home.”

“I know,” Josh sighs. He shouldn’t be upset, but he is. His mom says the same thing almost every day, or at least every day that she goes to work at her new job in Iberville, where she stays until real late so that Josh has to listen to all the other neighborhood kids outside, riding their bikes up and down the street and playing their bad version of baseball. He doesn’t have a bike, but they all use Davis Lambreaux’s old bat at the corner lot, and it’s not the Shrine on Airline, but it makes do. Then it’s dark, and he’s not saying he’s scared, but if his mom was home, that would be ok too.

Besides, if she keeps going to work, then maybe they can go to Sucre for his birthday. Or maybe he can get his own glove so that he doesn’t have to borrow someone else’s or use his hand.

When the bus rumbles onto the street, Josh heaves a sigh. Just once he wishes he didn’t have to go to school. Just once he wishes the bus would drive into a ditch or blow up or something, whatever it takes for him not to go. Sure, he gets lunch, and gym is fun on the days someone picks him, but the teachers get mad when he gets bored and…he’s not the best at making friends.

The bus doesn’t blow up. It stops and opens the door. The key in his backpack weighs a million pounds.

He hates school.

Josh waves and then leans his head against the window as Maggie waves back, barefoot on the porch. One time he’d seen a movie where the lady had flowers in her long blond hair and a long white dress that swished around her bare feet every time she moved, and he thinks that’s what his mom probably looked like once when she was young. Before she met his dad and then he got shot. So really, more like before Josh came along and ruined everything.

He watches her fade from sight and wonders how old she was when she stopped wearing flowers in her hair. Or how old she is now. He’ll ask her when she gets home. 

* * *

“Dr. Robicheaux, is it ok if we record you?”

“You want to listen to my dulcet tones on your own time, go right ahead. Maybe you’ll catch me in a particularly wise moment.” Goodnight logs onto the computer, then fights with the lectern to get it out of the line of the projector, not needing to look up to know just who’s asking the question. Ten classes in, and he already knows she’s is a particularly anxious student; there’s more surprise that she hasn’t asked already to record him. The projector flashes his screen, and consequently a photo of the Fitzgeralds, onto the board.

“All right, let’s get started. Thursday, I asked you to read _The Beautiful and the Damned,_ and isn’t it just problematic? But we’ll get to that in a minute. Right now, I want to look at Zelda, who almost had a fun life except for pesky things like adultery and electroshock therapy. Scotty took ‘write what you know’ to a whole ‘nother level. You should be getting—where are they, are they with you—you should be getting two different handouts. They’re both from—” 

Goodnight stops short when his lectern begins vibrating. He shuffles his papers in search of the source, which he is embarrassed to admit is his phone, lit up by Sam’s name. Declining the call with a mental note to thank Sam later for the disruption, Goodnight powers the whole thing down before returning to his lecture. “My apologies, what a wonderful example I make. Now, as I was saying, they’re both excerpts from Zelda. Read over them, and then we’ll see just see how much experience Scott used.”

* * *

When Billy pulls up to the precinct, he’s still cursing Goodnight, Sam, and anyone who happens to get in his way, but mostly Goodnight. There’s a beer festival going on because New Orleans can’t seem to go a week without a festival of some sort, and the restaurant had been packed when he’d gotten Sam’s call, which held no information other than Goodnight wasn’t answering his phone and he needed to get down to the precinct fast.

Billy has half a mind to cut off Goodnight’s number and see how long it takes him to realize it, as much as he answers the damn thing.

It probably wasn’t the best idea for him to walk into a police station reeking of alcohol, but if Sam notices it, he doesn’t make any indication. He pounces on Billy the moment he makes it through security, a hand going to Billy’s elbow, which he shrugs off roughly enough to be just this side of polite, barely containing a comment on _how he can walk, thank you._

“I didn’t get the call,” Sam says in lieu of an explanation, and Billy nearly snaps for him to speak plainly. He didn’t leave the restaurant for Sam to tell him riddles. But there are no riddles. Nothing is hidden.

“Just be nice, as much as you might not want to,” Sam says with genuine worry in his eyes as he starts to turn from Billy to the guard at the door.

“Sam,” Billy says, grabbing Sam’s arm and making him face him, “I’m not doing anything until you tell me what’s going on.”

One thing that’s never bothered Billy about Sam—and there are plenty of things that do—is his stoicism. Perhaps, as a fellow stoic, it’s because he can read Sam no matter how hard the other man might try to keep himself concealed, but for once, he doesn’t seem to be making an effort to conceal his emotions. Billy can see the dread written on his face as plainly as if he was Goodnight.

“It’s not going to be just a few days this time,” is all Sam says, and whatever Billy has on his face gives him all the go-ahead he needs to speak to the guard.

On the other side, seated at a table in a sea of banged-up tables and looking equally as banged up, is Maggie Faraday, arms hugged against her thin frame, face red and swollen. Every fiber in his being wants to walk right back through the door and as far away from her as he can get—every fiber except for his heart, which is drawn to her just as it always is. What he wouldn’t give for them to meet in a different way. What he wouldn’t give for them to meet in a better way, yet here they are. Again.

He’s a sap.

“Hey Billy,” she sniffs as he takes a seat across from her, not meeting his eye.

“Hey Maggie,” he says, and when she does nothing but bite her lip, Billy takes a deep breath. He’s not good with these things. “How are you?”

He could have asked her about the weather and it would have been better question than that. Anything would have been a better question. _Not so great_ would be putting it nicely, though _terrible_ seems like a more apt description of being handcuffed for the umpteenth time in her twenty-six years. If she realizes his stupidity, she makes no notice of it but instead shudders a breath that sends her hunkering inward on herself. She’ll disappear if she shrinks anymore, Billy thinks. But maybe that’s what she wants.

“Thanks...thanks for coming,” Maggie manages to get out, turning wide green eyes up to him, and Billy’s stomach sinks. They’re the same wide green eyes he’d calmed more than once over the summer, and why he’s surprised, he doesn’t know; he’d known whose eyes they were when they’d been scowling up at him on the front porch.

“They’re gonna take him, Billy,” she says, her shaking voice giving way to a sob. “Oh my God, Billy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know what to do. They’re gonna take him for good and put him somewhere just as awful, and I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, really, I didn’t. You gotta forgive me, Billy.”

It’s the most she’s ever said at one time, he thinks, partially out of defense at the weight of her words. He doesn’t want to forgive her just because he’s a self-proclaimed stubborn asshole looking for anyone besides himself to blame, particularly now that John is dead—though he’d never met John, he assumes from the way Maggie had spoken that he was big and rough and mean. But when he looks at Maggie and sees a girl who had never been allowed an original thought, he knows he’d forgiven her years ago.

Billy leans forward, placing his hand as close to her on the table as he dares. “Maggie, it’ll be—”

“Will you take him?”

“What,” he blurts just as suddenly, recoiling as though she had physically pained him.

“He’d always have been better off with you, and you know that. Can we—can we pretend like the offer still stands?

* * *

That dumb cop who took him to Goodnight’s and Billy’s has been running around the precinct for the two hours that Josh has been sitting there by himself. He keeps waiting for him to come running over to him--at least ask how he’s doing, not that Josh would be so disposed as to tell him--but he still wants him to come over. Just to have someone to fight. Josh watches him go zipping through the precinct again. Maybe he’s zipping out for food, or maybe to pull his car around. Maybe he’s zipping out for—

 _Billy_.

Just when Josh thought he’d spend the rest of his life starving in his chair, Billy comes stalking in

with a frown that seems just harsh enough to be real, and if he didn’t know Billy, he might be afraid. That stupid cop had been doing all that running around while he was waiting on Billy, who’s come to take him...to Jackson Avenue.

Waiting for Billy to hold out his arm, Josh hops out of his seat, but Billy and Sam go zipping right past him and down a hall out of sight.

That’s fine, he doesn’t care if Billy’s going to see him or not. He didn’t want any of his food anyway, it’s not like his food is even that good. He didn’t want Billy to tell him things were ok, have him put his hand on his back like he does, or lean against his side.  

Josh leans over, elbows on his knees, and thinks that at the rate they’re going, he might not have to go to school tomorrow. 

* * *

As Billy waits for Goodnight on the precinct steps and can do nothing but pace and twitch, he assumes this is why Goodnight went through his smoking phase. Too much nervous energy, nothing to chop, he’ll go mad if Goodnight doesn’t get here soon.

Goodnight comes walking around the street corner so quickly that his glasses bounce against his chest with every rigid step. Stupid thing to notice at the moment, how eighteen years of ease hasn’t blocked out eight years of harsh training, hasn’t turned clipped steps fluid, hasn’t allowed his back to bend, his hands to unclench; Billy notices it, though, but doesn’t dare point it out.

“I’m sorry, Billy, but Sam called during class and I forgot to turn it back on,” Goodnight begins as soon as he sees Billy waiting.

Billy cuts him off there, knowing Goodnight would spend the rest of the night apologizing if he could—and he’ll probably keep going later. “It’s fine. Did he tell you why we’re here?”

“Maggie,” is all Goodnight says, and Billy only nods. Maggie. A single force that seems always capable of upheaving their world. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t—what are we supposed to do, leave him here?” Goodnight doesn’t say anything, just looks at Billy like he’s made of glass, and Billy wants to scream, drop to his knees and beg Goodnight not to go, not to let them do it again, he can’t do it again.

He can’t leave him there either. And he half expects that even if he did, Goodnight would find a way to smuggle him home anyway. Billy will come downstairs tomorrow morning to find Josh waiting for breakfast and Goodnight ever so clueless and surprised about it.

“Billy, whatever you want to do, I am with you one-hundred percent. You say ‘thanks, but,’ and I’ll say ‘no thanks.’ But you have to admit, it was...it was nice.”

Goodnight would most assuredly smuggle him home.

Billy looks at Goodnight. They’ve gone through nightmares, weeks of fearful and sleepless nights, and they came out alright. They’ve built careers and a home—it was a struggle, but they did it. They’ve worked side by side to save what they’d built, and when the storm threatened to wash everything away, they sat down next to each other and waited. And they came out alright. Eighteen years it’s been this way, and Billy has no fear of making it to nineteen.

“She was crying. If you can calm her down, and I’ll talk to Josh. Sam’s waiting.”

That lopsided smile relaxes any tension he’d held, and with a quick brush of their fingers, Goodnight ducks inside. Billy watches him follow Sam back down the hall as he had done, then turns his attention to his own task. He finds him in a hard plastic chair too far off the ground for him to reach, his feet swinging next to a familiar blue backpack, eyes focused on the linoleum too intently not to be meaning to do so.

“You smell like my dad,” Josh says when Billy sits down next to him, not raising his head but glancing at Billy from the corner of his eye. There’s an edge to his voice that isn’t quite friendly, and the glint in his eye says he’s ready for a fight.

Billy runs his hand down the back of Josh’s head and rubs at his back. If it’s a fight he wants, he’ll have to try better than that. “How long have you been here?”

“Since they picked me up from school,” Josh answers, still with the same glint but more of a tremor than an edge to his voice. “In the cop car. I bet everyone saw.”

Damn them all, the inconsiderate assholes, damn them for not realizing kids are people, that they have feelings just like everyone else. If he’d been Josh, he would have booked it out of the station long ago, and, judging from the attention he assumes they’ve given him, been miles away before anyone realized he was gone. Billy wipes his hands on his pants. He wishes Goodnight were here because he feels useless in these sorts of situations; things come so easily with Goodnight, but any other time…he may as well be starting kindergarten again with his whole five words of English.

Josh saves him from having to offer words of comfort by asking, “What’s going to happen to my mom?”

“Josh…” Billy says, then sighs. He wants to tell him she’ll be fine, it’s all ok, but he can’t tell if the lie is more for his benefit or Josh’s. Probably not the latter. “Your mom is probably going to jail for a long time. At least longer than a few months.”

Under any other circumstances, the fierce scowl that Josh unleashes upon the floor would make Billy laugh, the way he juts out his chin, lips pressed firmly together, but Billy catches the wobble his lips are desperately trying to contain. He puts a hand on his back again, doesn’t rub, just lets it rest so he knows he’s there. “Goody’s talking to her now. She called us to come get you.”

“Well what does she know,” Josh cries, rounding on Billy with a ferocity not really aimed at him, his fists balled, red eyes threatening to spill over. “It’s her fault I’m here anyway!” 

“Josh. She’s trying to fix it. And if you don’t want to go with us, we won’t make you. It’s your choice, do you understand?”

Josh shrugs and swipes at his eyes, drawing his knees to his chest. Drawing in on himself just like Maggie. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”


End file.
